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DIFFERENT GODS 




FiCTio:^c 

ANNETTE et SYLVIE 

by Romain Rolland 

JEAN HUGUENOT 

by Stephen Vincent Benet 

THE COPPER HOUSE 

by Julius Regis 

by Rosita Forbes 


QUEST 



DIFFERENT GODS 

BY 

VIOLET QUIRK 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1923 





Copyright 192*^ 

DY 

HENRY H'' vr ^ 

AUTHORIZED EDITION 


First Printing July, 1923 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

AUG 13 1923 

©C1A752568 














PART I 


I 

i 

i 



1 


DIFFERENT GODS 

CHAPTER I 

S HEILA laughed to think she was fifteen. She 
wondered how she had borne the preceding years, 
and was amazed that she hadnT been crushed 
by their boredom. She despised herself for not having 
realized before how dull her life had been, and tried to 
understand how she could have been satisfied by school, 
meals, and occasional outings. 

She had always known, of course, that she would one 
day be grown-up, but grown-upness to her had meant 
putting your hair up, wearing long skirts, giving up games, 
and being serious; a dull condition altogether. How was 
it that it had suddenly become a thing of stirring delight, 
and sweet, unknown excitement? 

Men, of late, had been looking at her curiously. Did 
they sense her sudden, delicious interest in life? For 
when life had been merely pleasant, though peculiarly 
complete, they had passed her without a glance. 

She was fifteen. She laughed again to think of it. 
She was so happy, not because anything actual had hap¬ 
pened. It was her body that was happy. Her lungs were 
so glad to be breathing that they drank in the warm 
moist air as though they could never get enough of it. 

3 


4 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Her blood flowed through her veins with dancing move¬ 
ments, and her heart beat, beat, beat, as though it were 
humming a song. 

She had just begun to love her body. Only a little 
while ago it had been nothing more to her than a thing 
to eat with and walk with, be bathed and dressed. But 
now it had taken on a new and incomprehensible signifi¬ 
cance. She tended it and treasured it and thought with 
joy of the pretty white skin that covered it, more beau¬ 
tiful than any garment. 

She was fifteen. Next year she would be sixteen, the 
next seventeen, and so on. Each year would be a step 
further into that place of enchantment and unimaginable 
wonder that people called the future. 

She hastened towards the shore. The streets were too 
full of people. She knew she would bump against them, 
she walked so buoyantly. She felt like a fairy ship sail¬ 
ing on a painted sea. 

The rough roadway that led to the shore had poplars 
each side of it. Poplars are not the friendliest trees, but 
they are provoking and sweet. They have the movements 
of very young girls when, exultant yet afraid, they stare 
into the faces of men who desire them, and they look as 
though they should be able to run swiftly. They make 
you want to lend them your feet. 

When Sheila turned the corner, one of them swayed 
before her as though it were trying to say “Good day!” 
It seemed to be aware of its own imprisonment, and as 
Sheila passed it by she wished it could walk with her to 
the river. It seemed cruel and unjust that anything 
should be compelled to remain in one place for ever. 

As usual there were hardly any people on the shore. 
The fawn sand passed into beautiful grey mud, dim and 


DIFFERENT GODS 


5 


tender beneath the sloping sky. The stones were amber- 
coloured, and the blackness of the river was tinged with 
gold. The air was like God^s breath. 

She softened humbly, thinking of God, she loved Him 
so passionately. She wished many a time she could push 
aside the sky and reach right up to Him. Then she would 
sit at His feet, her head upon His knees. He would 
stroke her neck with His big, kind, masculine hand that 
was covered all over with little hairs, and she would lay 
it tenderly against her lips. 

Yes, she loved Him passionately, so passionately that 
she wanted to tell Him so, face to face. Prayer was 
inadequate. She pictured Him walking about Heaven 
with His alert, good, protecting step. He was clean¬ 
shaven, pale and tall. His jaws were square and His 
light grey eyes were always burning with compassionate 
light. She loved Him; she loved Him. When she was 
happy she told Him about it, and when she was sad she 
asked Him to help her, and He always did. He never 
failed her. He couldn’t. He was God. 

Some day, when she was properly grown-up and had a 
baby, she would introduce him to God. Of course God 
would know all about him, but it would be beautiful to 
hold the child up in her arms and say to God, “here he 
is.” 

He would be a lovely child, soft-cheeked, with gentle, 
earnest, considering eyes. Her heart stirred, thinking of 
him. The smell of his skin would have the overpowering 
sweetness babies’ skins have, and she would curl his 
fingers round her thumb. 

But he presented a very great difficulty, for she didn’t 
want to have a husband, and husbands seemed necessary 
where babies were concerned. 


6 


DIFFERENT GODS 


No, she didn’t want a husband. Husbands could sit 
with their wives, reading newspapers. They talked about 
their digestions and what they said to a friend of theirs 
the other day. She wouldn’t like that at all. The man 
she was going to love would have to be always aware of 
her, always entranced. 

They would not be able to marry because some insuper¬ 
able obstacle would come between them. She prayed 
that an insuperable obstacle should come between them, 
for their beautiful love was not going to end in mar¬ 
riage. 

They would sit together in one of those ships that have 
white prows. She would wear a high-waisted gown of 
palest yellow, and he would be dressed like a knight. And 
he would have in his eyes the distant, yearning, sacrificial 
look all knights have. 

They would love each other sweetly, tenderly, irrevoc¬ 
ably, always enduring the rapturous agony of imminent 
parting. He would kiss her finger-tips, nothing more. He 
would never trespass upon her shyness. He would never 
want to. He would hold her views. He would feel, like 
her, that kissing on the lips was far too intimate. 

She sat down on a stone, resting her chin on her hands, 
and huddling up her knees to support her elbows. 

The lovely faint colours about her increased her physi¬ 
cal happiness. The sky, that before was greyish-white, 
was turning lavender, and a dark cloud formed itself into 
a bird and spread out its wings over the river. 

She raised her eyes, hearing quick, uneven footsteps, 
their noise blurred by the sand. An old man was ap¬ 
proaching. He was going to pass her by, but when he 
saw her he stopped in sudden surprise, and his back 
straightened itself joyously. He regarded her deeply for 


DIFFERENT GODS 


7 

3 few seconds and then spoke in a voice that was weary 
with disappointment. 

thought you were Kathie,” he said. 

He had a pink complexion and a short, soft, pointed 
beard, whiter than paper. His eyes were extraordinarily 
blue, but they were quite without expression. They looked 
as though his brain had gone blind and couldn^t see 
through them. 

‘T thought you were Kathie,” he said again, and smiled 
foolishly. 

‘‘Did you?” asked Sheila, very interested. 

He showed no sign of walking on but stood in front of 
her, looking down at her vaguely. 

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I thought you were Kathleen.” 

“Who was she?” asked Sheila earnestly. 

“She was my girl.” 

“Did she die? Or is she your wife?” 

“No, no,” he said impatiently. “I married the Mrs. 
She is an old woman. Kathie is young, only eighteen. I 
thought you were Kathie when your hands were over your 
face, but she was much nicer-looking.” 

He sat down on the sand beside her with the careful 
movements of extreme old age. The skin on his hands 
had sunk between the veins which looked like heavy, 
purple strings. His body was slim and youthful. His 
bright blue eyes looked younger than a baby’s and his 
voice was old and uncertain. 

“Yes, I thought you were Kathie. But she was much 
nicer-looking. She was hasty, that was all. I was hasty, 
too. We quarrelled. She came to me to make it up, and 
I said I wouldn’t, but only to hear her ask me again. I 
didn’t think she’d take it so hard. She went away and 
married another man in three weeks. Yes, she did, she 


8 DIFFERENT GODS 

< 

did.’’ He shook his head about despairingly, and mur¬ 
mured over and over again, ‘^She did, she did.” 

“Did she?” said Sheila, to rouse him. 

“Yes. He had a farm of his own, too, and I was only 
a labourer.” 

“It wasn’t that that mattered!” said Sheila. 

“I couldn’t stay there any longer with Kathie living 
with another man, so I said I’d go to America, and no one 
believed me.” 

“Did you go?” 

“Yes, I went. I left Ireland behind me. I got up very 
early and walked down to the boat. All the blinds were 
down in the houses, and none of the chimneys were smok¬ 
ing. I went straight on deck, and who should come 
walking on the boat but Kathie! She had slipped out of 
bed to see if I was really going. She only had a skirt over 
her shimmy and a shawl round her head. She was holding 
the shawl over her mouth, and her black eyes looked over 
it as yours looked over your hands before.” He paused, 
looking vaguely about him. “Yes, she slipped away from 
the man she married to see if I was really going. She 
only had a skirt over her shimmy and a shawl over her 
head, and her black eyes looked over it. ^It’s not going 
y’are afther breakin’ me heart,’ she said.” Unconsciously 
he dropped into his native speech that the usage of years 
had altered—“ ‘Is it going y’are afther breakin’ me heart?’ 
and she kissed me, opening her shawl and spreading it 
round my shoulders. And her breast was so soft.” 

Sheila blushed with overwhelming shyness, though the 
old man had spoken with the utmost simplicity. He 
was murmuring again: “She kissed me, opening her 
shawl-” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


9 


Sheila asked quickly. ^‘Did you go to America?’^ 

“Yes, I went there. I married my wife there. I don’t 
like her. She is a hard woman and old. Fifty. Very old. 
Kathie is only eighteen. ‘Is it going away y’are,’ she said 
to me-” 

“Does your wife live round here, too?” 

“Oh, no. She died a long time ago. I was glad when 
she died. She was a hard woman, and always for cleaning 
the house.” 

He poked at the sand with his walking stick. A church 
clock struck. He started violently, crying in fear, “I’m 
late. My daughter’s daughter shouts at me when I’m 
late. She told me to be early. She’ll shout.” 

He got up with difficulty and walked away, his haste 
making him stumble. 

Sheila looked upon him, her eyes growing wide with 
thought. 

She was filled with fear that one who had been so young 
could grow so old. She hoped she would never be as old 
as he was. She hoped she would die when she was thirty- 
five and life would no longer be worth living. And she 
was more than ever determined that an insuperable obsta¬ 
cle would come between her and the man she was going to 
love. 

She would rather be some man’s Kathleen than his wife. 



CHAPTER II 


W HERE have you been?” asked her grand¬ 
mother when she came back into the house. 
“To the shore.” 

“I have told you that a girl should not go to the shore 
alone.” 

“You’re always saying ‘A girl shouldn’t-’ ” 

“A girl shouldn’t.” 

“There’s hardly anything she can do.” 

Hardly anything.” 

“Why?” 

“Another why!” 

“Well; why?” 

“Do you think I am God? He is the reason for every¬ 
thing, not I. He decides what one should do and what 
one shouldn’t.” 

“But not in everything.” 

“Yes, everything.” 

She went on knitting, evenly, rhythmically, resignedly. 
And Sheila watched her with fear and fascination. There 
was something inexorable about her, something impen- " 
etrable, something bound. Her thoughts went inwards, 
not out. And she talked of Life as though it were a series 
of tricks played upon defenceless man by a God who was 
never to be questioned or blamed. She was wrong, of 
course. Sheila was certain she was wrong. Life was an 
adventure, a thing of supreme delight, and you could do 
with it exactly what you liked. Yet Grandmother made 
her afraid. So much of what she said came true. 


10 



DIFFERENT GODS 


11 


^‘Where is your sewing?” said Grandmother; “a girl 
should not sit idle.” 

‘‘I’ll get it in a minute. I met an old man on the 
shore.” 

“What I” 

“He was a very nice old man.” 

Grandmother put her knitting down. Her eyes became 
anxious. She said with great solemnity: “A girl shouldn’t 
talk to men she doesn’t know.” 

“Why?” 

“My goodness! Another why! Listen to what I say 
and be satisfied.” 

“But he was really a nice old man. OldV^ 

“A man is always a man.” 

“He told me about a girl he was in love with when he 
was a young man. He would have married her only for 
a silly quarrel.” 

“Who is he to say that? It is written whom we shall 
marry.” 

“Oh, no!” said Sheila. 

“Haven’t you heard about the Lord God losing His 
way? He was walking with His disciples to a town but 
didn’t know how to get there. So, seeing a man lying in 
a field, the Lord God went to him and asked him the way 
to the town. 

“The man did not answer, but just moved his foot to the 
east, and as there were many turnings to the east, the 
Lord God didn’t know which one to take. 

“Then He saw a girl carrying water from a well, so He 
went to her and asked her the way to the town. She smiled 
and put down her pitcher of water and pointed out the 
way, and for fear He did not understand, she walked a 
long distance with Him till the town was in sight. 


12 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“And St. John said, when she had gone, ^Master, give 
her a good husband and let her life be a happy one.^ 

“And the Lord God said, ‘It is written, the man who 
even now is lying in the field, will be her husband/ 

“And St. John said, ‘But, Master, he is lazy-’ 

“The Lord God answered, ‘It is written! 

Sheila listened, her lips parted, looking again at her 
grandmother with fear and fascination. She fetched her 
sewing and after a time fear left her. She felt that she 
and her grandmother had different Gods. She didn’t put 
the feeling into words. It simply pervaded her of its own 
accoont. Her beautiful, kind, protective God was going 
to let only happy things happen to her. She was sure 
of it. 

‘^Make your back straight,” said her grandmother, “and 
must I tell you a thousand times to keep your bedroom 
tidy? To-day it was disgraceful.” 

Sheila looked at her with reproach and a little hatred. 
That was just like Grandmother, to talk of God in one 
breath and untidiness in the next. 

“Ah!” said her grandmother, “I talk for your good. 
Some day you will fall from the clouds and bruise yourself 
against the earth.” 

“I won’t,” said Sheila stubbornly. “Why do you 
always talk to me like this?” 

“I am warning you. Meek people live happily, but you 
will be made to suffer in order to become meek.” 

“I won’t be meek! I won’t! I won’t! I’ll do what 
I like, always!” 

Grandmother looked at her with some compassion. 

“Poor child! You don’t know what life can do to you, 
do you?” Then she raised her voice suddenly. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


13 

‘Those stitches! They’re going all over the place. 
Dear, dear! What a girl you are!” 

Sheila flung her sewing down and went upstairs. She 
had begun the day loving every one and filled with the 
need of sympathy and tenderness. She had been suffused 
with joyous expectancy. And, as usual. Grandmother had 
swept it contemptuously away. Grandmother was only 
pleased with her when she did her sewing well, or was tidy 
and quiet. 

She went into the large bedroom she shared with her 
sister Peg. Peg was sitting on the bed threading bright 
ribbon through a camisole. Her legs were crossed and 
her knees were hunched up high. She looked as though 
something had happened. 

“What’s wrong?” she said, looking at Sheila. 

“Oh, Grandmother!” 

“Why do you let her worry you? She never worries 
me. What happened?” 

“Nothing. That’s just it! We get talking and then we 
always disagree.” 

“I never listen when she talks in that miserable old 
way.” 

“Have you heard about the Lord God losing His way?” 

“No, and I don’t want to. Look at this ribbon.” 

“Why have you started putting coloured ribbon in your 
camisole?” 

“So it will show through my blouse.” 

“Why should it?” 

“Sheila, if I tell you something, don’t tell Grandmother. 
Don’t let it slip, I mean. I know you wouldn’t tell on 
purpose.” 

“What is it?” 

“I’m in love.” , ♦ 


14 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“In love I” 

Sheila blinked incredulously. She could picture Peg in 
anything except love. Love, to Sheila, was an exalted, 
happy-melancholy state, more like the ecstasy of religion 
than anything else. She read poetry, and poets always 
talked of love as though it were something more sad than 
happy. It seemed impossible then that Peg should expe¬ 
rience it. 

“Who is he?’^ asked Sheila, 
musician.’’ 

She said the words as though she were playing a chord 
that amazed her with its beauty. 

“What’s his name?” 

“James Chadwell. He’s got such beautiful teeth, even, 
and set close together. I love men to have beautiful teeth. 
His hair’s black, not dead black, but like—Stephen’s ink 
when it’s still in the bottle.” 

“Like a raven’s wing,” corrected Sheila gently. 

“That sounds better, doesn’t it? Oh!” She stretched 
out her arms stiffly, drawing a sharp breath. “It’s queer 
being in love. The stories we’ve read about it I Yet none 
of them prepare you. I’m meeting him to-night. Isn’t 
it a long time off?” 

“It’s quite soon. Supposing it were next week?” 

“I wouldn’t let it be next week. I couldn’t stand that.” 

“What will you say to Grandmother?” 

“I’ll say I’m going to Jenny’s.” 

“But it will be a lie.” 

“Well?” 

“God will hear it.” 

“There’ll be so many more lies being told at that 
moment that He mightn’t notice mine,” She laughed. 
^‘He doesn’t worry me,’^ 


DIFFERENT GODS 


15 


“It isn’t that He worries me but that I want to please 
Him. Though He does worry me, at times, when Grand¬ 
mother talks.” 

“I never think about Him.” 

“Oh, Peg, you aren’t an atheist!” 

“No! I couldn’t be bothered.” She held up the cam¬ 
isole, smiling at its prettiness. “But really,” a look of 
seriousness passed over her face, “I don’t know what’s 
wrong with me. In Church I can never think of Heaven. 
Something funny always strikes me. I keep wondering 
what we’d look like, sitting there in pews, with nothing on. 
Or I count all the men with bald heads.” 

“I think all the time of God and-” Sheila stopped, 

unable to mention that beautiful, knight-like lover she 
would never be able to marry, and who always came into 
her thoughts when God did. 

“Look here!” said Peg concernedly, “You’re getting 
awfully religious lately.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila with some satisfaction. “Awfully.” 

“I hope it doesn’t last.” 

“I think it will. You’ve no idea how holy I feel. It’s 
most extraordinary.” 

“It is! ” said Peg with a giggle, “seeing that Miss March 
told Grandmother you were the most mischievous girl in 
the school.” 

“Did she? The beast! Mischievous! What a childish 
word to use. I might be eleven.” 

“Aren’t I glad I’ve left. I like being eighteen.” 

“It must be lovely.” 

Peg stood up and went to the dressing-table- 

“Look! I’ve bought some powder.” She dabbed some 
on her face. “Doesn’t it smell nice?” 

“Makes you want to cover yourself with it.” 




i6 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^^Don’t look at me when I come back and say IVe been 
to Jenny’s, or I’ll give the show away.” She moved rest¬ 
lessly about the room. ^‘He has beautiful teeth, and his 
hair waves although he keeps it short.” 

^‘How did you meet him?” 

‘‘I saw him playing in the orchestra at the King’s 
Theatre. I couldn’t help staring at him, he looked so 
handsome. You can see his teeth even when he isn’t 
smiling. He began to stare back at me. Then we smiled 
together. When we got outside I hurried Mrs. Himming- 
dale on to a ’bus—she was itching to go home before 
‘God save the King’ even—and I waited for him. He 
came. I knew he would.” 

“D’you know that Grandmother’s arranged about our 
summer holidays? We are staying with a Mrs. Turton, 
a farmer’s widow, that Mrs. Grahame recommended. Her 
daughters stayed with her last year.” 

“It’s in the country, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, in the very heart of the country.” 

Peg shivered. 

“I’ll hate it. But I won’t go. Is Grandmother going?” 

“No, she can’t bear travelling. You’ll have to go. Peg.” 

“But I’ll come back. I hate the country. I hate it. 
But if I liked it I wouldn’t go. Not now that I’ve met 
himP 

“But we won’t be there for long.” 

Peg did not trouble to reply. She knew that Sheila 
wouldn’t understand how strangely time had changed its 
pace. 


CHAPTER III 


S HEILA sat at the open window of the farmhouse 
bedroom. She had put out the candle, and the 
darkness streamed through the window like a 
black wind. 

She was in the country. There were no chimneys chop¬ 
ping the sky in pieces, no crowds of hurrying people. She 
was in the country, the place of purity and beautiful 
associations. One could think of everything that was 
sweet, in the sweet and tender country. She envied the 
country people, for their opportunities. They would find 
it so easy, she thought, to live with poetical fitness. There 
was nothing to jar their spirits or reduce them to the com¬ 
monplace. They had beauty to feed on from the moment 
of their birth. 

She turned reluctantly from the window and lighted the 
candle again. She liked the gauche and shy little room. 
The furniture was awkward but it was painted sky-blue, 
and the wall-paper was of the palest pink. There were 
little green pictures on the walls. 

She brushed and combed her hair very carefully. Only 
a little time ago. Grandmother had had to scold and per¬ 
suade her before she would take any care of it, but now it 
filled her with anxiety. She wished it would grow very, 
very long, past her knees, down to her ankles. It was 
ridiculous stopping below her shoulders, just like anybody 
else’s hair. And she wished it were either flaming gold 
or deepest burnished black. Brown was a most unsatis¬ 
factory colour. 


17 


DIFFERENT GODS 


:i 8 

Her face, too, didn’t please her. There was nothing 
glorious about it. It was pale, round, and so small. A 
big man’s outspread hand could have covered it. And 
her eyes were brown instead of blue. It was absurd hav¬ 
ing eyes exactly the same colour as your hair. The effect 
was monotonous. 

She sighed discontentedly and got into bed. Then she 
got out again, remembering she hadn’t said her prayers. 
She had never argued it out, but she felt it would be insult¬ 
ing to God to say her prayers anywhere, at night, except 
at her bedside and on her knees. She hoped God appre¬ 
ciated all she endured to please Him in this matter. For 
she hated having the soles of her feet exposed in the dark. 
She imagined mice or cockroaches touching them. Her 
nightgown only came to her ankles. 

She slept happily, and the next morning got up early, 
wakened by the tiny, unfamiliar sounds of the country. 

The moon had gone, and the palest, silliest of suns had 
come in its place. The sky had no colour in it. 

As she dressed she wondered how Peg was getting on. 
Peg had come with her the day before, but had done as she 
had intended: gone home again. Sheila didn’t know what 
explanation she was going to give to Grandmother. She 
had said she would think of one on the way home, and had 
been quite without trepidation. 

Breakfast was beautiful. Sheila unwillingly enjoyed it. 
Her appetite always dismayed her. Ladies who sat with 
knights in white curved ships, or by still deep lakes, never 
had hearty appetites. She wished she could toy with her 
food. But she couldn’t. She was always too hungry. 

Mrs. Turton was anxiously polite. She always empha¬ 
sized her politeness by a look of anxiety which was put on 
definitely as a garment when she spoke to those whom she 


DIFFERENT GODS 


considered her social superiors. She was an ugly woman. 
She had a shapeless, sallow face, and hips that were notice¬ 
ably broad. Her eyes were quick and deep. 

^There’s a nice walk up the lane,” she said when break¬ 
fast was over. ^What a pity your sister had to go home 
so soon! I hope you won’t be lonely.” 

‘‘Oh, no,” said Sheila enthusiastically, “I couldn’t be 
lonely here. There’s so much to look at.” 

Mrs. Turton smiled in polite disbelief. 

“Town people always say that, but they always get rest¬ 
less in a day or two. My husband used to say he could 
tell town people from their restless faces.” 

“Is that your husband?” asked Sheila, seeing a large 
* photograph of a man on the wall. 

“Yes, my husband that was. He’s dead now.” 

Sheila was surprised. Of course she knew that Mrs. 
Turton, in being Mrs., must have had a husband, but she 
had only known it in words. It seemed incredible that 
anyone could have loved her sufficiently to want to marry 
her. And it seemed equally incredible that anyone could 
find it possible to marry him. What a mercy, she said to 
herself, that such people can marry each other! 

“Very good husband he was, too,” said Mrs. Turton, 
“that is, as husbands go.” She smiled. “And I didn’t 
know who he was when I promised to marry him.” 

“How was that?” 

“Well, I was housemaid in a summer lodging-house, and 
two young fellows, brothers, were there, and had their 
eye on me.” 

Sheila fixed both her eyes on Mrs. Turton, in deep 
wonder. 

“They used to carry on with me on the stairs. I had to 
slap both their faces for them before they went. Then 


20 


DIFFERENT GODS 


they kept writing to me and I kept writing back. After a 
bit one of them asked me to marry him. I wrote ‘Yes/ 
but I didn’t know which one it was. They’d both been 
Mr. Turton to me, you see. Well, we fixed up the wedding 
and he said he was coming over the day before. It was 
fun, I can tell you, wondering v/hich one he’d be. I hoped 
it’d be the fair one, as I liked him the best. But of course 
it wasn’t. It was the other.” 

“Oh,” said Sheila slowly. 

“Beautiful day,” said Mrs. Turton, drawing herself up, 
and surprised at herself for being so communicative. A 
young lady wouldn’t want to hear about her affairs. 
Young ladies never did. 

But Sheila was deeply interested. She looked at Mrs. 
Turton with closest attention, and wanted to prolong the 
conversation. But Mrs. Turton assumed her anxious 
politeness again, and gently drove her to the door. 

Sheila walked slowly along the lane, barely conscious of 
it. There is great charm in unfamiliar things even when 
they are ugly. And the lane was beautiful. But the 
thought of Mrs. Turton’s marriage blotted it out. 

She had been able to marry either of two men. How 
extraordinary! Sheila had always thought that there was 
one man in the world born to meet one certain woman, and 
that Fate miraculously brought them together. Grand¬ 
mother had always said: “If two people are to marry 
they will meet, if the Devil has to bring them together in 
wheelbarrows.” 

Yet Mrs. Turton had been willing to marry either, and 
she had thought it fun wondering which one it would be. 

She sought her out when she came back from her walk 
to talk to her again. 

“It’s nice having a chat with some one,” said Mrs. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


21 


Turton after a while. get that lonely with my husband 
gone and all my children away.” 

‘‘Where have your children gone to?” asked Sheila. 

“Some’s married, and some’s in service. One of my 
girls is doing very well. She had her photograph taken 
with nothing but a piece of chiffon round her shoulders. 
It looks as though she was wearing a real evening dress.” 
She went to the mantelpiece, bringing back a photograph. 
“That’s her. My mother would have given me the rolling- 
pin if I’d shown my neck like that. But I believe in 
moving with the times and improving yourself. I’ve seen 
a photo of the Queen worse than that, and grand ladies 
are brought up to it. Of course, town men aren’t as 
cheeky as country fellows.” 

“Aren’t they?” asked Sheila earnestly. 

“My goodness, no! If a girl was to go about like that 
here—my goodness!” 

She picked up the kettle from the fire, shook it, and put 
it down again. 

“That’ll hurry it up,” she said. “Kettles are like peo¬ 
ple. They want reminding.” She had dropped her 
ceremonious manner again, and looked at Sheila with lik¬ 
ing and pleasure. “Have you seen the chickens?” 

“No. I’ll go and have a look at them.” 

“Mind the hen. She’s such a good mother she might 
peck at you, being a stranger, if you pick them up.” 

“When did she lay them?” 

“She didn’t lay any of the eggs. She only hatched 
them.” 

“How extraordinary! Where’s the hen that laid them?” 

“One hen didn’t lay the lot.” 

“Who’s their mother then, the one that hatched them 
or the one that laid them?” 


22 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘The one that hatched them, you’d think,” said Mrs. 
Turton, after a pause. “She looks after them and wor¬ 
ries over them just like a real mother. The ones that laid 
them don’t know them when they see them-” 

“That must be dreadful,” said Sheila, frowning with 
sympathy. 

“They don’t mind,” said Mrs. Turton with a sudden 
hearty laugh. “They wouldn’t mind if they saw them 
boiling hard on the fire.” 

“It seems very confusing,” said Sheila seriously. 

She went out to the chickens, who were running about 
on their funny little toy legs. Their bodies were covered 
with Bright yellow fluff and they looked like big acacia 
blossoms. 

“Poor thing,” said Sheila to the hen, “it must be simply 
sickening having to look after other hens’ children, sweet 
as they are.” 

After tea she wrote to Grandmother and Peg, and told 
them they hadn’t to worry about her being alone. Mrs. 
Turton was very nice, and the place was so beautiful that 
the people were bound to be beautiful, too. She would do 
some sewing every day. She didn’t inquire after the 
musician in her letter to Peg, in case Grandmother should 
ask to see it. 

“There’ll be a cup of tea at eight,” said Mrs. Turton 
kindly, “that is, if you’ll care to come in for it.” 

“Thank you,” said Sheila, “I love cups of tea at odd 
hours.” 

“So do I,” said Mrs. Turton with earnestness, and 
looking at Sheila as though, by that fact, a great bond 
had been established between them. “So do I.” 

Sheila laughed, took her book and sewing, and went 
out. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


'23 

She found a moorland space that was covered with 
heather of so indefinite a purple that it seemed to be a 
reflection of a colour rather than a colour itself. The 
air was drenched with sweetness. 

She sat down and tried to sew. 

She thought of the old man and his Kathleen, of Peg 
and the musician, of herself and the knight-like lover 
who would kiss the tips of her fingers and go away to 
love her eternally. She wished everything could be beau¬ 
tiful for ever, that people could be always young and 
always deliciously happy. She thought of the empty, 
sufficient look of middle-aged people, and wondered how 
it was they possessed no inward fire. Had it flickered and 
gone out? Or had it never burned within them? She 
hadn’t yet read Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn, but it was 
the spirit of that that possessed her. Only stagnant souls 
have never felt its bitterness. 

At eight o’clock she went back and had a cup of tea with 
Mrs. Turton. 

‘T’m going to the village,” she said to Sheila; “would 
you like to come along with me? Just as you like. Don’t 
think I’m persuading you.” 

“Oh, but I’d like to, very much. Are we going now?” 

“Yes. Put this over your head. Hats are all right in 
the town where the big buildings keep stopping the wind, 
but they’re no use in the country.” She brought a big 
scarlet handkerchief, folded it cornerwise, and put it over 
Sheila’s head, tying it under her chin. 

“It’s getting dark,” said Sheila, standing at the door. 
“How pretty the lane looks without lamp-posts!” 

“Awkward late at night if you haven’t a lantern.” 

They began to walk towards the village. 


24 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘What a snug little cottage with those weeny windows 
and thatched roof.’’ 

“Very dark inside.” 

“It’s only one storey high and the door’s like the ones 
children make in sand castles, round and a bit sided, and 
what darling little windows!” 

“Pity they don’t open. Still, summer’s short and you 
can always open the door. It’s Mrs. Caine’s house. I 
haven’t seen her for a while. She’ll be calling me names 
if I don’t go in soon. Poor woman, stuck to her bed! 
And with six little children.” 

“Six!” said Sheila. “In that little house!” 

“She can’t move, you know. Hasn’t moved for six 
weeks. Her husband’s a local preacher, and he gets so 
worked up with his sermons that there’s no doing with 
him. He came home drunk one night and hit and kicked 
Hannah, and her expecting a baby.” 

“Oh!” said Sheila, flushing, then turning pale. 

“The next morning she couldn’t move. Jamie was 
frightened because Hannah’s the sort of woman who gets 
up when others would slip into their coffins. Well, he 
went for Dr. Mylchreest, but he was too drunk to move. 
He went back home. Hannah was still in bed, and 
couldn’t bend even to sit up. The children were all crying 
about the place, not washed. He went to Brassingdale 
then, and brought back Dr. Howard. He said the baby 
had died suddenly with fright and was stiff already. 
That’s why she can’t move. She’ll just have to v/ait till 
it’s born, he said. That might be three months yet. 
Jamie is that good to her. Carries her downstairs every 
morning.” 

“Good! ” said Sheila, horrified. “But he kJcfed her and 


DIFFERENT GODS 


25 

she-’’ she stopped, her quick breath catching her 

speech. 

She thought of the beautiful pictures she had imagined 
of babies with their mothers. She had believed that a 
man, a woman, and a child formed a sort of holy trinity. 
The whole thing was a beautiful, tender mystery she 
couldn’t fathom. But who could fathom a mystery? She 
had believed that a man would regard a woman who was 
going to have his baby with gratitude, compassion, awe, 
and a little envy. Yet James Caine had kicked his wife! 

^Tt’s terrible,” she said, her voice husky. ‘What a 
hateful man he must be!” 

“Jamie Caine’s all right,” said Mrs. Turton, surprised, 
“except when the drink’s in him. He’s all right as men 
go, I mean. There isn’t much help in a man for a woman, 
you know.” 

“Isn’t there? Why do women marry them then?” 

“Because there’s nothing else to marry. And when 
you’re young you want to be married. There’s nothing in 
life, unless.” 

“There’s a lot,” said Sheila. 

“Not for working people. D’you see the graveyard 
over there?” 

“Yes, how horrible it is!” 

“I like to pass it,” said Mrs. Turton with curious sat¬ 
isfaction. “I like to think of old Bob, dead in there, cov¬ 
ered and kept down. The dog!” For the first time since 
Sheila had known her, her voice expressed emotion. 
“Hah! I watched him dying, and listened to him shout. 
I knew he’d die hard, and he did. He was frightened.” 

“Who was he?” 

“My husband’s father. We lived with him when we 



26 


DIFFERENT GODS 


were first married, and he watched every crumb we ate. 

And he treated my children-’’ She paused, to control 

her agitation. ‘‘He said he was training them. He sent 
them to bed at three on summer afternoons sometimes, 
and made them stand for their meals. I used to have 
rows with him, but he always won. My man couldn’t 
stand up to him, and always told me to be quiet. He 
held the purse, you see. He employed my man.” She 
looked towards the graveyard with triumph as though 
the fact of his lying there was some sort of victory. “My 
children were frightened of him before they could talk. 
And do you know what he did once?” She plucked Sheila 
by the arm. “I’d scraped together some money to buy my 
baby girl a doll, and he took it out of the child’s hands 
when I was out; cut its legs and arms off, and poked it 
into a hole in the floor. When I came back the baby was 
crying, and I kept saying, ‘What’s the matter, love? Tell 
mammy what’s the matter.’ And there he sat laughing 
in the corner, God curse him! I knew he’d die hard, 
and he did. He was three days shouting and groaning in 
the bed, and when I knew he was dying for certain I bent 
over him and said, ‘Die, dog!’ That’s what I said. He 
couldn’t answer me back then. He moved his lips, but 
couldn’t get any words out. I won that time.” 

She turned to the graveyard, shaking her fist at it. 

“That’s his tombstone! The big white one! I think 
of him sometimes climbing up it in his shroud to have a 
look at his house with me owning it. He always hated 
me. He used to sleep in your bedroom, and that’s where 
he died. That’s your window facing the graveyard.” 
She stood still to look at the tombstone, paper-white in 
the darkness. “He’ll hate to be kept down there, shut 



DIFFERENT GODS 


27 

away. He was always inquisitive. Couldn’t keep his 
fingers out of other people’s pies.” 

‘Tet’s hurry,” said Sheila, feeling she wanted to push 
aside the darkness and get in a lighted room. She linked 
arms with Mrs. Turton, grateful for the touch of any 
human being, and they w^ked into the village. 


CHAPTER IV 




HE undressed hurriedly that night, conscious of 
old Bob who had slept and died in her bed. His 
tombstone gleamed palely in the distance, but she 
wouldnT look at it in case she should see him peering 
over. She felt she couldn’t possibly say her prayers at 
her bedside, so she said them lying down, first of all apolo¬ 
gizing to God and explaining the reason to Him. 

In the morning she felt braver. Sleep has a way of 
blurring the emotions of yesterday. She was sobered but 
not depressed. It was morning, and she experienced the 
sensation of pleasant expectation each morning brings. 

She looked out of the window, no longer afraid of the 
tombstone which, in the pretty yet commonplace light, 
looked futile and dreary. But she regarded the country¬ 
side with a sort of suspicion. It appeared so quiet and 
reverent and good, and the cottages were dotted here and 
there like shells on a broad seashore. Yet people like 
James Caine lived inside them, and Mrs. Turton’s terrible 
father-in-law. 

When she passed the Caines’ cottage later on in the 
morning she saw three of the children sitting on a step. 
They were untidy and rather dirty, and they were each 
munching a piece of dry bread. Another child was crying 
inside. Somebody screamed at it. A cup fell and broke. 
A woman’s voice called drearily: “Is that another cup 
gone! ” 

Yet fuchsias snuggled against the cottage wall, and the 

p^e sun smiled in the sky. Irregular fields of corn 

28 



DIFFERENT GODS 


29 

stretched round about, like golden girls lying on their 
sides. The air sang. 

She hastened past the cottage and went up the first 
turning, found a grassy patch under the hedge and sat 
down, deciding to get her day’s sewing done with. But 
it was difficult to sew in such a place. She opened her 
book instead. 

She was beginning to read when she saw, coming up the 
lane, a young man, driving a herd of cows. He had a 
buoyant, free, delighted walk. When he approached her 
she saw that he was dewy with loveliness. His skin was 
as white as milk, his hair was leaf brown, his eyes were 
shining and blue. He reminded her of David leading his 
flocks. 

When he saw her he gave her a leisurely, radiant look 
of interest, then smiled a little in pleasure. His smile 
brought to her notice the amazing sweetness of his 
mouth. 

Her heart stirred. The country road-turned into a tur¬ 
quoise sea. The immaturities of her youth fell from her 
and she grew gracious, curved, and tall. His careless suit 
turned into silver armour. He took on the form of her 
knight. 

When he passed, reality returned. He was a country 
boy, driving cows. How could she have thought such 
things? Her knight would be a poet, a musician, an 
athlete, an artist, and a gentleman, not a cowherd. She 
turned to her book again and read determinedly. 

In the afternoon she told Mrs. Turton that she would 
go to the village to look at the shops and buy some ice¬ 
cream. 

Mrs. Turton smiled. “I knew you’d get restless sooner 
or later.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


30 

not exactly restless-said Sheilal, rather 

ashamed. 

“But the country’s slow, that’s it.” 

Sheila thought she put it very brutally. 

She walked to the village but found so little there that 
she decided to walk to the next. It was farther off than 
she thought, and it was only when she was sitting down 
eating her ice-cream that she realized how tired she was. 
She wanted to lie down and go to sleep. The bones of her 
feet were aching, and her eyes were full of dust. She 
dreaded walking back to Mrs. Turton’s, but there was no 
other way of getting there. She started off feeling very 
miserable, and at the end of a mile was so exhausted that 
she had to sit down on a hedge for a rest. After ten 
minutes she compelled herself to start again, and walked 
doggedly for haJf-an-hour. Then she gave in. The hedge 
was covered with thorns and bracken. So she curled 
herself beneath it and lay comfortably, her eyes closed, 
enjoying the sensuous pleasure of rest after great exhaus¬ 
tion. She heard the sound of a horse and cart, but didn’t 
open her eyes. She wasn’t going to open them to look at 
anything in the world till she felt fit to start walking again. 

The horse and cart stopped, and a man jumped down 
and walked towards her. She looked up. David was 
standing beside her, bending over. He was smiling, and 
his shining eyes looked gently into hers. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

She sat up quickly, sitting on her feet. 

“I’m so tired,” she said, “I walked too far-” 

“Come in the trap. Where are you staying?” 

“With Mrs. Turton.” 

“I can take you as far as the corner. The road’s too 
bad by Mrs. Turton’s for a horse and trap.” 




DIFFERENT GODS 


31 


“Oh please don’t trouble.” 

“You can’t lie here all day, can you?” 

“No.” She smiled and stood up and they walked 
together towards the trap. He lifted her up, and settled 
her on the seat, jumped up beside her, and drove off. 

She was embarrassed and couldn’t think of anything 
to say. The horse ran fleetly, and the trap bounded in 
rhythm. David held the reins lightly, calm, assured and 
beautiful, and bearing upon his face the look of one who 
finds intense enjoyment in everything. 

When they reached the corner he jumped down buoy¬ 
antly. She proceeded to climb cautiously down by the 
step, but he placed his hands under her arms and set her 
gently on the ground. His hands made caressing move¬ 
ments though he barely touched her, and she blushed a 
little, aware of them. 

She had a cup of tea with Mrs. Turton at eight o’clock, 
and agreed to go with her afterwards to see a baby. 

They walked over grass-grown lanes away from the 
main road to a cottage that was smaller and far less pretty 
than the Caines’. When she stepped inside Sheila was 
surprised at the darkness. The heavy thatched roof kept 
the light out, and the windows were thick, tiny and almost 
opaque. 

“We’ve come to see the baby,” said Mrs. Turton 
heartily. 

“Come in.” A tall quiet woman led them into the 
kitchen whose corners were pitch black. “Sit down.” 
She sat down herself, picked up a stocking and began to 
knit, a frowning expression upon her face. 

“Well, Edie, how are you?” said Mrs. Turton, in the 
same hearty voice, to a girl who was sitting in one of the 
dark corners, a baby in her lap. 


32 


DIFFERENT] GODS 


‘Well, thank you.” 

“Let’s see him.” 

Edie brought the child over and gave him to Mrs. 
Turton. 

“My goodness, what a child! The size of him! Why, 
he might be three months old!” 

“He’s big, isn’t he?” 

“Big! That isn’t the word for it, is it, Maggie?” 

Maggie didn’t stop knitting. She nodded her head 
slightly and compressed her lips. 

Edie saw her expression and bent over the child. She 
had a; pale, gentle face, misty eyes, soft, obedient mouth. 
Her voice was muffled and sweet. 

“Has Willie seen him?” asked Mrs. Turton. 

“No,” said Edie, her eyelids dropping suddenly. 

“Has he said anything about marrying you?” 

“No.” 

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Turton encouragingly, “he 
might change his mind.” 

“I don’t want him,” said Edie almost in a whisper. 

“Oh, girls always say that,” said Mrs. Turton cheerily. 
“I believe your father went and asked him.” 

“Yes,” said Edie, putting out her arms to take the child, 
and looking for no more than a moment at Maggie knitting 
in the chair. 

“What did he say?” 

“He was too young to marry.” 

Sheila withstood a desire to get up and rush out of the 
house. She wondered furiously how Mrs. Turton could 
sit complacently asking such questions. Couldn’t she 
read the expression on Maggie’s quiet face, or hear the 
breath-holding sound in Edie’s soft, muffled voice? She 
didn’t understand the situation clearly, but it was enough 


DIFFERENT GODS 


33 


to know that Edie had been subjected to the deep humil¬ 
iation of having, through her father, to plead for marriage 
from a man and be refused. Yet the child was his and 
hers. Bewilderment filled her. 

‘‘Well, it’s the finest child I’ve seen,” said Mrs. Turton 
with conviction. “What are you going to call him?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“This is a young lady I’ve got staying with me. I’m 
quite forgetting my manners.” 

“You’re well, I hope,” said Maggie and Edie, both 
together, politely. 

“Quite, thank you,” said Sheila nervously, feeling she 
wanted to apologize for her presence. 

She got up and looked imploringly at Mrs. Turton. 

“Well, we’ll be going,” said Mrs. Turton, getting up. 
“And I hope Willie’ll change his mind, Edie, I do indeed.” 

She picked up the child to kiss him and feel his limbs, 
smiled at Maggie and followed Sheila to the door. 

“Oh, how could you?” said Sheila, as soon as the door 
was closed behind them. 

“What?” asked Mrs. Turton in surprise. 

“That—that baby.” 

“But you have to be neighbourly.” 

“You asked her questions about the—the man.” 

“Yes. I wanted to know. He won’t marry her, Willie 
won’t. Jane Collins’ father nearly went on his knees to 
him, and he wouldn’t marry Jane. He’s got a will like 
iron. Poor Edie! She was always a nice girl, quiet and 
good, and not much to say for herself. And, sakes! She 
was ill when that child was being born! She had to have 
the doctor actually. Dr. Mylchreest, a very clever man. 
He was a doctor in London once, but had to go away on 
account of the drink. Then he went to Birmingham. I 


34 


DIFFERENT GODS 


don’t know the other places he went to, but he landed here 
at the last. He was in drink when he went to Edie, and 
when she cried out he hit her down with his fist and said, 
^Be quiet, you’re crying too late.’ ” 

“What did her father do then?” 

“Nothing. He was walking up and down outside and 
didn’t know.” 

“Hasn’t she a mother?” 

“No. But Maggie came as soon as she could. We 
thought she’d be very stuck-up and la-di-da and look 
down on Edie, being maid in a big gentleman’s house and 
very lady-like, but she’s never said a word to Edie, only 
been good to her all the time.” 

“Where are we going now?” 

“To Mrs. Caine’s.” 

“I’d rather go home,” said Sheila hastily. “I have a 
headache,” she added as Mrs. Turton began to look hurt 
and show signs of assuming her polite manner. “Good¬ 
bye.” She forced a smile to her lips and walked away. 

When she reached the house its darkness added to her 
depression. She turned up the lamp and took down one 
of Mrs. Turton’s uninteresting books, but she couldn’t 
read. Her thoughts were in a jumble. She had read and 
thought and heard a great deal about romance. Of the 
sordid facts of life she knew nothing at all. Edie’s story 
not only caused her grief and pity but it upset her beliefs. 
A man should be chivalrous and splendid. Willie was 
mean and cruel. And yet Edie had loved him. 

She thought of David and his beautiful shining smile, 
and she hoped most passionately that he hadn’t heard 
about Edie and Willie. Such a story would hurt him 
deeply. It had hurt her to the very heart, and she was 
less gentle than he, and she hadn’t his radiant sweetness. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


35 


He would grieve about Edie and want to fight Willie, in 
his knight-like, chivalrous way. She hoped it wouldn’t 
come to that. Willie’s appearance would illustrate the 
beastliness of his character. How could Edie have loved 
him? Poor Edie 1 

She pictured her lying on a narrow bed, in a dark 
unventilated room, unloved and unmarried, bringing to 
birth the child of a creature like Willie. And she thought 
of her crying out in her agony, and the drunken doctor 
striking her into silence. 


CHAPTER V 


T he next day she longed so much to play ball that 
she went to the little sweet shop in the lane to 
buy one, and was bouncing it with enjoyment 
when she saw David coming in the opposite direction. 

She blushed, feeling humiliated, and was angry with 
herself for having bought a ball. At fifteen one should 
be above such things. She hoped her disturbing love of 
games would leave her soon. It was so childish to play, 
and she did want to be properly grown-up. 

‘‘Throw!” called David, flinging up his right arm. 

She threw him the ball shyly and he caught it. He threw 
it again and again, high up in the air, and caught it easily 
each time, laughing with the enjoyment all movement 
gave him. 

Then he handed the ball back to Sheila and walked 
along with her. 

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said, having tried in vain to 
say something else. 

“Yes,” he said seriously, “but it was so much more 
beautiful this morning. I get up at five, you know, and 
the air is—is—I can’t say what it is like. But it is the 
nicest thing on earth. Do you ever get up at five?” 

“No.” 

He made a little sound that expressed his pity for her. 
“You should. I love waking in the morning and opening 
the front door and stepping out. There’s nothing like 

it.” 

“What do' you do so early?” 

36 


DIFFERENT GODS 


37 


‘‘I milk the cows. I milk all Kinear’s cows.” 

“Do you?” 

“LeFs walk to the river and sit down.” 

“It isn’t a river really, it’s only a stream.” 

“We always call it the river.” 

“Yes.” 

There was silence then. They sat down, and he lay 
back supporting himself on his elbow, and watching her 
gravely. 

“What tender hands you have! ” he said. “I have never 
seen such little things before. They’ve never done any 
hard work.” 

“No,” she said, something in his voice making her 
ashamed that they’d never done any hard work. 

“I could break them quite easily.” 

He took hold of them, pressing their tiny bones with 
caressing movements, and watching the film of shyness 
that passed over her face. 

“You’re little all over. I’m such a big chap.” He 
laughed a little, rejoicing in his bigness. 

They didn’t speak then, but he kept her hands in his, 
regarding their fragility with gentle amusement. 

“I must go home,” she said. “It’s dinner time.” 

“Will you be passing this way to-morrow?” 

“Oh, I don’t think so.” 

“Why not? Isn’t the whole day your own?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why can’t you pass this way to-morrow?” 

“Perhaps I can.” 

“I’ll wait for you till you come.” 

She met him next day by the river. They hardly talked 
at all, just sat together, passing remarks from time to 
time. He often took hold of her hands, pressing their 


38 DIFFERENT GODS 

soft bones tenderly, and once he laid her fingers against 
his lips. 

The action was so reminiscent of her knight that she 
started a little and gazed at him profoundly. Why, all 
of him was knight-like, his beauty, his radiance, his 
strength, but most of all his chivalrous ways and the 
glorious goodness of his eyes. And the difference in 
their rank, that was the insuperable obstacle that would 
come between them and part them for ever. Rank was 
a pretentious word to use, seeing that she was only middle 
class herself, but she knew of no other. 

When he felt her start he let go of her fingers, regarding 
her sweetly, and she thought how kind life was. David 
was quite perfect! He understood that laying her fingers 
against his lips was so intimate an action that it hadn^t 
to be repeated for some time. She thought of Willie, 
coarse, cruel, ignoble Willie. How could Edie have loved 
him? There must be something coarse in her nature, 
she decided, for all her gentle ways, to enable her to love 
such a creature. How could she have looked at him with 
David so near? She was glad though, she hadn’t looked 
at David. She was glad he had looked at no girl 
until she came. She knew he hadn’t from the proud way 
he walked about, always alone, and from the austere but 
luminous beauty of his face. He had been sunk in dreams, 
as she had been. They had awaited each other. 

They met each day that week by the river, and on the 
Friday he said to her, “Why don’t you meet me in the 
evening?” 

“In the evening?” she said. “I never go out in the 
evening by myself.” 

“Come out to-night. It’s going to be beautiful. Look 
at the sky.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


39 


She looked at the sky and pictured God behind it, sitting 
on a beautiful gilt throne studded with rubies. He was 
leaning forward looking down and He seemed to be say¬ 
ing, ^‘Hello, Sheila!” He looked glad she was so happy. 

‘‘It’s going to be beautiful to-night,” said David. 

“Yes,” said Sheila. 

“Will you come out then? At nine? The light will 
be going.” 

“And the trees will all look like shadows.” 

“What a pretty mouth you’ve got.” 

She covered it suddenly. 

“Yes.” He took her hand away, moved slowly towards 
her, and placed his mouth on hers, making no kiss. 

“Oh, no,” she said, distressed. “No, no.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Then I won’t again.” 

She grew suddenly serene and smiled at him with 
beautiful tenderness. “Then I won’t again.” All of him 
was knight-like. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Turton asked her to come out 
with her. They were walking along the high-road when 
David turned the bend of a by-path and confronted 
them. 

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Turton cordially. 

“Well, thank you.” He moved uneasily to get away, 
but Mrs. Turton held him back. 

“I went to see Edie on Tuesday. It’s a fine child. 
Have you seen him?” 

“No.” 

“I’ve never seen such a child for his age. Edie said 
her father had been to see you.” 

“Yes.” 


40 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“And you’re not going to marry her?” 

He didn’t reply, but looked for a moment at Sheila, 
whose face had gone quite grey. She placed one of her 
hands before it as though to shield it from his glances. 

“Are you going to marry her?” asked Mrs. Turton 
inquisitively. 

“No,” he answered in a laboured voice. 

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Turton brightly, “we’ll be off. 
I’m in a hurry. This is a young lady I’ve got staying 
with me.” 

He smiled at Sheila gravely, but she only stared back 
at him. 

“Good-day,” said Mrs. Turton. “What a handsome 
boy you are, Willie! No wonder the girls get mad on 
you.” 

He smiled again and walked away. 

“Of course he’ll never marry Edie,” said Mrs. Turton 
confidentially. “I knew that without asking. He 
wouldn’t marry Jane, and her father almost went on his 
knees to him. And Jane’s of respectable farmer’s stock on 
both sides, while Willie’s only a love-child. But his 
father’s Captain Blakely, a very grand gentleman, and his 
mother was a servant to the Captain’s mother. She died 
when Willie was three. Captain Blakely paid generous till 
Willie was earning—Mrs. Corney brought him up—^but 
he never came to see him. Didn’t want to. He’s mortal 
afraid, yet, of his grand wife finding out. But Willie’s a 
beautiful lad, isn’t he?” 

Sheila tried to reply but could only moisten her lips. 

“He goes by the name of Willie Corney, but when he 
was at school the children used to laugh and shout, Tap- 
tain Blakely.’ They knew. He won’t marry Edie. He’s 
on for marrying a lady. He loves ladies’ ways, Once 


DIFFERENT GODS 


41 


when he was in Brassingdale on market day he saw a lady 
standing by a wall, her fingers stretched out against it, 
and he stood still to look at them. He loves ladies’ hands, 
does Willie.” 

She talked without ceasing till they returned. 

Sheila went to her bedroom early. She lighted the 
candle, saw her grey face in the glass, but did not notice 
its greyness. Her eyes felt parched. She sat by the win¬ 
dow to cool them. 

David was Willie. She said it a dozen times. David, 
the knight, was Willie, the blackguard, who could be 
merry and smiling while a girl hid herself for many 
months and then suffered in a dark, unventilated bedroom. 
He could talk of his enjoyment of health and life, while a 
girl gave of her strength to a hungry baby whose very 
existence proclaimed her humiliation. David was Willie! 
David 1 David! ^ 

She felt bewildered with life. It frightened her. Before 
coming to Gaston it had seemed so simple a thing with 
only two tragedies in it, death and old age. People were 
either good or bad, and their goodness or badness was 
written clearly upon their faces. It had all seemed so 
simple. 

Then there was James Caine who beat his wife and 
preached sermons on Sunday, and David who was Willie. 
There was Jane, and there was Edie, and he had kissed 
her hand, and laid his lips upon hers. There was Jane, 
and there was Edie, and his image had confronted her, 
waking and sleeping. Her dreams had made him holy. 
The sound of his voice had exalted her. 

The next evening over supper a note- was slipped under 
the door. Mrs. Turton picked it up, read the name on it, 
and handed it to Sheila, smiling slyly. It was from David 


42' 


DIFFERENT GODS 


—even in her thoughts she couldn’t call him Willie—and 
it said, “I waited by the river for you. I shall wait again 
to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Turton watched her as she read, and noticed the 
old smile that obliterated for a moment the childishness 
of her face. Sheila got up and laid the note carefully on 
top of the fire, watching it burn. 

Another note was pushed under the door the following 
day. She burned it without reading it. She would have 
gone home. But going home before she was expected 
would have entailed explanation, and she couldn’t 
explain. 

The days dragged. From sheer dread of her own 
company she spent nearly all her time with Mrs. Turton, 
and Mrs. Turton’s familiarity became complete. On 
ceasing to regard her as a superior stranger she ceased to 
watch her conversation. She talked to Sheila, not with 
deliberate coarseness, but simply as she would have 
spoken to one of the girls of the district who, being coun¬ 
try bred, had none of the facts of physical existence hid¬ 
den from them, and who regarded the love of human 
beings as being little different from the mating of animals. 
But Sheila had lived all her life in a city. And cities, 
though sophisticated, are discreet. And Grandmother had 
guarded her ignorance. Also she had a romantic nature, 
and a romantic nature, if it cannot find beauty, creates 
it out of nothing. But with ugliness it is helpless. 

One evening she went with Mrs. Turton to the house 
of an elderly farmer. He was a silent-seeming man, with 
serious eyes, and a beard like those of the saints in a 
church window-pane. His wife was broad, plump, and 
motherly. They had six sons and a daughter, Sheila’s 
age. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


43 


They were all having supper when Sheila and Mrs. Tur- 
ton entered the kitchen, eating herrings with their fingers, 
and taking potatoes from a big heap that rolled about in 
the middle of the table. 

They greeted Mrs. Turton with nods of the head and 
went on eating, assuming a polite manner on Sheila’s 
account. But when Mrs. Turton began jocularly to speak 
about Edie, their polite manner was immediately laid 
aside. They took their cue from Mrs. Turton, who, they 
were certain, wouldn’t have talked of such things 
before a town young lady, if the town young lady had 
minded. 

One of the sons made an incredibly coarse remark. 
Sheila waited for the saintly-looking father to get up and 
knock him down, but he only chuckled. The mother 
smiled, and the sons followed up their brother’s remark 
with others of their own. The daughter listened smilingly 
and mentioned Willie. . . . 

A sudden shudder passed through Sheila, leaving her 
body still. Everything seemed to stop, her heart, her 
brain, the people’s voices, the wind outside, the world 
itself. It was hardly wounded love that she was suffering 
from. It was disillusionment. Her affection for David 
had been romantic, sweet, and perfectly pure, though in 
him she had for the first time realized manhood. 

The day before she was to go home Mrs. Turton said 
with conscious lightness, ‘'Guess who’s coming to tea, 
to-day! Willie!” 

“I won’t be home for tea.” 

“He’ll come for supper then.” 

“I won’t be home for supper. I won’t be home any 
time he comes.” 

“But I promised him-” Mrs. Turton stopped awk- 



44 


DIFFERENT GODS 


wardly, then burst out, one can deny Willie any¬ 
thing. He asked me, and I promised him. Everybody 
does what he wants.” Her eyes softened. ‘^Such a lovely 
lad he is!” 

“You to talk like that? You, a woman? Why— 

why-” her tongue stumbled with eagerness. “Why, all 

women should band together and shun him, to show what 
he is. Don’t you see that in making a fuss of him you’re 
stamping on Edie and Jane and—and—girls like that?” 

Mrs. Turton blinked confusedly. 

“You make light of them and you have daughters of 
your own. Why don’t you all band together?” 

“What for?” asked Mrs. Turton stupidly. “That 
wouldn’t make him marry Edie.” 

“No, but you’d be letting him know what you think of 
him, what you ought to think of him.” 

Mrs. Turton blinked again. She didn’t understand. 
Sheila knew she didn’t. But why didn’t she? She was 
fifty. 

Sheila went out of the house and walked impatiently 
across the fields away from the river and saw Edie sitting 
on the grass playing with the baby. 

Sheila stopped and, with the utmost gentleness, asked 
Edie if she didn’t think it a beautiful day. 

“Yes,” said Edie nervously. She plucked at her blouse 
with her bare left hand. 

“The baby looks so pretty.” 

“Yes, he’s fine and pretty.” 

Sheila sat down on the grass beside her and the two of 
them regarded the child, overcome by the extreme tender¬ 
ness of babyhood and by their own sorrowful thoughts. 

After a while the baby began to cry, loudly and indig¬ 
nantly. He pulled angrily at Edie’s blouse and she opened 



DIFFERENT GODS 


45 

it patiently. The baby’s crying passed into crooning 
sounds, then into silence. 

Willie passed across the bottom of the field. He was 
singing, and his voice sped through the air like a bird. 
His hair shone in the sunlight, and he walked as though 
to walk was supreme delight. The two girls did not look 
at each other, but when he passed they looked at the baby 
in wonder. 


CHAPTER VI 


W HEN Sheila arrived home Grandmother and 
Peg both remarked on her pallor. She 
escaped them as soon as she could and ran 
upstairs to her bedroom. Peg followed her. 

^‘You haven’t asked me about him,” she said. 

“Well, what about him?” said Sheila, smiling affec¬ 
tionately. 

“He’s engaged.” 

“Engaged?” 

“Yes. But it’s me he loves. He’s going to break it off. 
It’s me he loves. We meet every day. I want you to 
know him.” 

She waited for the exclamation of delight and interest 
that would certainly have come from Sheila before she 
went away, but Sheila only said quietly and as though she 
were talking to some one much younger than herself, “I’d 
like to.” 

“I’m meeting him to-morrow afternoon. It’s horrid 
dreading Grandmother finding out. But it won’t be for 
long. When the engagement to her is broken off we’ll be 
engaged at once, and then I can tell Grandmother, and 
it’ll be all fair and square and—jolly. She’d lay an egg 
with fright if she knew how things are now. But I’m not 
going to give up seeing him on that account.” 

They met the musician next day, and he took them into 
a cafe. Sheila gave him a penetrating, grudging look. 
He was manly in build, but he had a soft curved mouth, 
like a woman’s, and a woman’s smile. 

46 


V 


DIFFERENT GODS 


47 


“Isn’t he beautiful?” said Peg. “Have you noticed his 
teeth, Sheila, and his hair? Look at those two girls at 
that table. Aren’t they jealous they aren’t with him?” 

The musician smiled at Sheila as though to say: “Don’t 
be anxious, thinking I’m embarrassed. I’m not. It’s just 
her wav.” 

A waitress came to the table. 

“Tea and lots of cakes,” said Peg to the musician. 

He repeated the order, word for word, and regarded the 
two girls with enjoyment. 

“Do you like Sheila?” Peg asked him. “We aren’t 
only sisters, but friends.” She paused and looked at 
Sheila then as though she had a premonition that they 
would one day need each other’s friendship. 

“You’re both jolly nice,” said the musician in a lingering 
affectionate voice. 

“D’you hear that?” asked Peg, her eyes sparkling. 
“And it’s quite true. We are.” 

They chatted gaily over tea and when they had to go 
Peg talked with great rapidity, her cheeks flushed-, 
“Some day,” she whispered to Sheila, as they were leaving 
the cafe, “some day I’ll be able to go to the theatre with 
him, and sit there during the performance, and look at 
him, and smile at him, and come home with him, and be 
with him for ever and ever. So I don’t mind letting him 
go to-day.” But her voice betrayed how very much she 
minded. 

Sheila had to listen a great deal, the following day, to 
detailed accounts of Jimmy’s ways, his tastes, his sayings, 
and his ideas, and she imagined she appeared much inter¬ 
ested. But once Peg said suddenly: “You don’t under¬ 
stand now, but when you fall in love-” 



48 


DIFFERENT GODS 


won’t/’ said Sheila, without force or flamboyancy, 
but with calm and deep conviction. 

‘‘Rubbish! What will do you with yourself, then? 
Falling in love’s the only thing in life.” 

“That’s what Mrs. Turton said,” said Shelia curiously. 
“But you’re both wrong. There’s a lot that’s interesting 
in life. Everything interests me, in fact, except love and 
men. Not,” she added hastily, “that I don’t like hearing 
about Jimmy. I do. You’re my sister, so of course I’m 
interested.” 

“What will you do, then?” 

“Do?” 

“Yes, with your life?” 

“I don’t want to have anything to do with men. I shall 
earn lots of money, and travel.” 

“I love men,” said Peg happily. “I don’t know why. 
But I do. I like seeing them about. And when there’s 
a crush of women and a man comes in the room, my 
spirits rise and I feel brighter, even though I know he 
isn’t coming anywhere near me.” 

“I hate them,” said Sheila. “They’re beautiful in 
poetry and pictures, but in real life-” 

“I wouldn’t like them if they had beautiful natures and 
all that.” 

“But you don’t like bad men!” 

“As long as they’ve got nice ways and look handsome 
I don’t mind what they are. Jimmy has lovely ways, 
hasn’t he? and an awfully taking face. I wish that girl 
would die or something.” 

“Oh, Peg!” said Sheila in a sudden, shocked voice. 

“She’s a nuisance. But as soon as Jimmy breaks off 
the engagement it’ll be all right.” 

“How soon is he going to break it off?” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


49 


‘^In a week or two.’’ 

But a week or two passed, and Peg still stole out 
secretly, and each time she came back her face was white 
and her eyes wide open and glittering. 

One night she was so late that Sheila was already in bed 
and half asleep when she came into the bedroom. 

‘'You are late,” murmured Sheila. “Grandmother been 
slanging you?” 

“Yes.” 

Peg began to undress. She moved clumsily about and 
dropped her hair-brush several times. Now and again 
she smothered a sob. 

“What’s the matter?” said Sheila when she got into 
bed. “Grandmother doesn’t mean it.” 

“It isn’t Grandmother.” 

“What is it?” 

Peg’s sobbing was agonized. 

“She tried to commit suicide.” 

“Who?” 

^^She. She stuffed up the chimney and closed the win¬ 
dows. She arranged a blanket round the bottom of the 
door and turned on the gas fire. When they found her 
she said she would try again if Jimmy wouldn’t marry 
her.” 

Sheila made a sound of contempt. 

“Jimmy’s father is furious with him—he told them all 
about me, you know—said he must marry her immediately 
and act like a—^like a gentleman. His mother is on my 
side. She says, ‘Let him have the girl he wants.’ And 
that,” said Peg, her voice suddenly clear of sobbing, “is 
me.” 

“And what is Jimmy going to do?” 


50 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Peg moved her head restlessly and forced nonchalance 
into her voice. ^‘He hasn’t decided.” 

Sheila smiled bitterly in the darkness. He hadn’t 
decided! If Peg had been the man she would have 
decided quick enough. 

^‘It’s the suicide that frightens him,” said Peg, hearing 
Sheila’s condemnatory silence. 

“She won’t commit suicide. She doesn’t know how to 
love. If she did she wouldn’t beg a man to marry 
her.” 

“So I don’t know what’s going to happen,” said Peg 
drearily, a deep sob shaking her. 

Sheila smiled again in bitterness. Mrs. Caine, Edie, 
Peg, she herself, all bearing sorrow because of a man. 
She was so young that if an angel had confronted her with 
a roll, immeasurably long, of men who were good and 
great, she would have swept it aside. The personal 
swamped her judgment. Why hadn’t God made different 
arrangements? Why didn’t the world contain only women 
and babies? 

She fell into restless sleep and was disturbed several 
times by the sound of sobbing. . 


CHAPTER VII 



■^HE new curate called next day. He was a long 
narrow man with a head that looked as if it had 
been squashed in a door. He talked as though 
he had flannel in his mouth, and his whole expression was 
lugubrious. 

He said to Grandmother, in a clerical, chanting voice, 

noticed you and your elder grandchild in Church last 
Sunday.’’ He gave Peg a penetrating glance, and she 
wondered if he had guessed what she had been thinking 
about him. He went on in the same booming voice, “I 
did not notice your younger grandchild.” 

^‘She was in the country,” said Grandmother. 

‘‘How very beautiful!” he said, lowering his voice sud¬ 
denly. “One gets so near to God in the country.” His 
eyebrows formed themselves into question marks that 
asked of Sheila, “Is not that so?” 

Sheila smiled enigmatically. 

“In the country one hasn’t the lowering distractions 
of the town, lowering in a religious sense, I mean,” he 
went on. “One is so near to nature. And the people 
are so touchingly unworldly!” 

He looked for corroboration at Sheila, whose large 
dark eyes surveyed him with melancholy displeasure, and 
immediately looked at Peg again. Peg giggled 
and coughed. Sheila, understanding the reason of the 
cough, giggled too, and also coughed. Grandmother 
gave them a warning look. But the curate hadn’t noticed. 



52 


DIFFERENT GODS 


When he went Sheila said: ^^Have you ever seen any¬ 
thing more like a chapter of Job?” 

‘Tet me get my laughing out,” said Pe^, sinking 
back in her chair. 

“Girls!” said Grandmother admonishingly, but she 
was smiling a little too. 

“Supposing he calls again!” said Sheila. 

“He won’t call for some time,” said Grandmother 
soothingly. 

But he called the following week and brought a bunch 
of flowers. Peg surveyed him with a grin, and when he 
began to speak in his curious booming voice, Sheila had 
to go out of the room. He reminded her so much of 
the caricatured parsons in Punch. 

He called frequently, always with flowers, and after 
three weeks he asked Grandmother if he could “pay 
his addresses to Miss Margaret.” 

When Grandmother told Peg she laughed so boister¬ 
ously that Sheila rushed into the room to find out the 
cause of the fun. She laughed, too, when she heard 
what it was, and Grandmother, against her will, joined 
in. 

“Me a curate’s wife!” said Peg. 

“Margaret, wife of the Reverend Augustus Binns,” 
said Sheila. * 

“Doesn’t his name describe him!” said Peg, seriously. 

Sheila’s eyes sparkled as she pictured him. Then 
she wondered suddenly at her own merriment. She 
had been so miserable a little while ago that she had 
been quite sure she would never smile again. She was 
still miserable, deep down, she assured herself; she was 
only jolly on top. 

“He has a private income of-” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


53 


ho! ’’ said Peg with a theatrical gesture. 

^Tut-’’ Sheila couldn’t speak for her laughter, 

which renewed itself each time she thought of Peg as 
the wife of the solemn, lugubrious, utterly unhumorous 
curate, presiding over mothers’ meetings and jumble 
sales. 

Peg went out that evening to meet Jimmy, and came 
home looking pale and distressed. She stepped into bed 
sighing so deeply that each sigh sounded like a sob. 
When Sheila asked her what was the matter she only 
said, ^‘Nothing. Everything’s just the same.” 

For the next fortnight her pale, distressed look con¬ 
tinued, even when Sheila, forgetful of her bruised illusions, 
was being frivolous and funny. 

During the third week there was a new fire in her eyes 
and her lips were formed into a defiant shape. Her 
manner forbade Sheila to ask any questions. 

One evening when she came into the bedroom after 
having told Grandmother as usual that she had been 
to see some school friend, she said to Sheila, in a voice 
that had hardly any sound in it, “He’s being married 
to-morrow to—her.” The last word, as she said it, was 
an oath. “But I’ve worn her wedding ring first.” She 
spoke as though that were a great triumph, a fact which 
puzzled Sheila. “I’ve been out with him, off and on, 
all day. It’s been a wonderful day. It’s me he loves. 
I went with him to choose the ring. I chose a thick wide 
one, because I hate them so. Then I wore it on my 
wedding finger.” Her pallor deepened. Sheila shoved 
a chair over to her but was afraid to say, “Sit down.” 
Peg sat down upon it, breathing deeply. The fire had 
left her eyes, and they looked dark and empty. 

“Why is he marrying her?” demanded Sheila. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


54 

The accusation in her voice roused Peg. As though 
she were struggling with sleep she said: ^‘She tried to 
commit suicide again.” 

^^And doesn’t it matter about you? Supposing you 
tried to commit suicide? What then?” 

“He couldn’t have death on his conscience,” said Peg, 
not answering her. 

“There’s not much help in a man for a woman!” 
Wasn’t that what Mrs. Turton had said? 

Peg put up her hands to take the hatpins out of her 
hat, but her hand fell back limply as though it hadn’t 
the strength for such a task. Sheila took out the hatpins, 
took off Peg’s hat, and began to speak brightly of little 
things. But Peg didn’t hear. The anguish of jealousy 
was kindling her imagination. She was watching the 
wedding ceremony. The bride was all in white and she 
was smiling. And the bridegroom was Jimmy. He took 
a wedding ring from his pocket and put it on her finger. 
It was an ugly ring, thick and broad, but it was a wedding 
ring, and it meant that the girl could live with Jimmy 
as his wife. 

Sheila was frightened by her expression. 

“I’m really glad it’s happened,” she said in a voice soft 
with kindness. “He’s only a poor violinist. Grandmother 
wouldn’t hear of it. You’re going to marry someone 
rich and important.” 

“I’m going to marry Mr. Binns.” 

“You’re what?” 

“I’ve written to him.” 

“You don’t mean it. Peg?” 

“I’ve written to him.” 

“What does a letter matter? You can write again.” 

“I’m going to marry him.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


'55 

“But you mustn’t I won’t let you. You don’t know 
what you’re saying. YouTe upset, Peggy love, but you’ll 
be all right soon. You’ve nothing in common with him.” 

“What does that matter?” 

“He might kiss you,” said Sheila, horrified. 

“I hope he does.” 

“Peg!” 

“I’ve got so used to being kissed.” 

“There are dozens of other men you’ll be meeting.” 

“Where are they?” 

“You’ll be meeting them soon. You’re so young. Peg. 
There’s plenty of time.” 

“There isn’t,” said Peg. “Let them come now if they’re 
coming at all. I’ll marry Mr. Binns in three weeks.” 

“He’ll want everything to be in order, a long engage¬ 
ment-” 

“I’ll say to him, ‘Marry me in three weeks or not at 
all.’ He’ll marry me all right.” 

“You don’t love Jimmy, then!” 

“How dare you say that!” 

“You can’t, or you wouldn’t be able to marry another 
man, such a man, so soon.” • 

“It’s because I love Jimmy.” 

“But I’ve always read-” 

“I don’t care what you’ve read. I’d never have thought 
of marrying Mr. Binns only for Jimmy. Now he’s gone 
all other men are just the same. And I’ve got so used 
to kisses. I told you that, didn’t I?” 

“But you couldn’t stand Mr. Binns kissing you?” 

“I can stand anything. I can stand anything except 
sticking here with you and Grandmother, remembering. 
I always looked at the hall clock, waiting for the time I 




56 DIFFERENT GODS 

was to meet him. Do you think I could pass that clock, 
day after day?’^ 

time you could.’^ 

‘‘In time? If I sit down and wait for time I’ll die. 
A wedding will mean some sort of excitement. I’ll live 
in a different house and have a different life and,” she 
smiled unpleasantly, “I can always close my eyes when 
he kisses me.” 

“You don’t mean it-” 

“And he has plenty of money. I’ll spend it for him. 
I’ll give you a good time, Sheila.” 

“I don’t want it. Don’t bother with any men. Peg. 
I’m not going to. Let’s both stay unmarried. We can 
have lots of fun together.” 

“I might have believed you before I met Jimmy. But 

now-” 

“Now what. Peg?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Mr. Binns is narrow-minded and gloomy. He’s mean, 
and there’s no love in him.” 

“No what?” 

“No love, no real love, I mean, the sort that flows out 
of you even to strangers sometimes.” 

“Strangers?” 

“Strange women and children, horses and dogs—Mr. 
Binns looks at you as people look at things in shop 
windows when they want them very much.” 

“That’s enough for me.” 

“You’re upset, that’s all.” 

“Upset?” said Peg. “I’m dead.’' She laid her head 
on the dressing-table and sobbed. 




CHAPTER VIII 


I T was five years later. 

‘‘Hallo!” said Peg. 

“Hallo!” Sheila laughed. “I wish this business 
was over. I’m sure to laugh. I won’t have to hold the 
kiddie or anything, will I? How long do christenings 
last?” 

“Don’t know.” Peg fixed her hat.on. “You haven’t 
seen the new vicar, have you?” 

“No.” 

“Oh Gawd!” 

“What’s he like?” 

“Soapy. There’s soap on his skin and all over his 
tongue, and it simply slithers through his system. He 
has a suitable wife. She looks exactly like a horse. You 
know. Her face comes out in the middle. He always 
speaks of her as ‘My deah wife.’ She simply adores 
work and anything that’s difficult and disagreeable. 
Having babies, to her, is a picnic. They’ve got three; 
one’s two and a half, the other’s one and a half, and the 
third’s six months.” 

“Heavens!” 

“She doesn’t mind. She loves it. She was telling 
me all about the last one. ‘I was machining,’ she said, 
‘and Henry said, “Won’t you lie down, dear?” and I said, 
“No, Henry, I began this work and I’ll finish it.” They 
were casement curtains.’ She refused to have chloroform 
because she thinks that God wouldn’t like it.” 

“She’s like the woman who said to the school teacher, 

57 


DIFFERENT GODS 


58 

^Don’t tell my child any more about Hygiene. If God 
had meant us to know all about our insides, he’d have 
hung them around us, not stuffed them inside.’ ” 

‘^She just suits the vicar. He said to me the other day, 
^I left my wife bathing her three little ones. It is a labour 
of love.’ And you’ve no idea how he twists his lips 
about before he says each word.” 

“Are you ready?” Augustus Binns opened the door. 
He looked at Peg with some displeasure, having heard 
her light voice on the stairs, and he thought it inappro¬ 
priate to the solemnity of the occasion. “Where is the 
child?” 

“The nurse has him.” 

“Yes, we must hurry,” said Sheila, lowering her voice 
and smiling with deliberate hypocrisy at Augustus. She 
despised him, but it was necessary to be on good terms 
with him, seeing he was Peg’s husband. She wasn’t 
going to give him the smallest chance of making their 
meetings awkward. 

They went to the church and followed Augustus down 
the aisle with a sort of tip-toe step. Peg, Sheila, the nurse 
and baby, and Mr. and Mrs. Henshaw, always referred 
to by Augustus as “two valued parishioners.” 

The soapy vicar, smiling sickeningly, welcomed them 
with arms literally outstretched. The service began. 
Sheila did not dare to look at Peg’s mocking face. The 
baby screamed indignantly. The nurse made funny 
clucking noises. Augustus looked severe. A barrel organ 
began to play. Sheila’s eyes danced in involuntary re¬ 
sponse. Peg smiled. 

After the service, when they were walking to the vestry, 
Sheila found the vicar at her side. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


59 

“I^m so glad,” he said in his large voice, “that Mrs. 
Binns has a little one.” 

“Yes,” murmured Sheila, thinking of Peg^s panic when 
she first had known of its coming, and picturing her soon 
after its birth, murmuring, white-faced, “It feels just 
like religion.” 

“My wife would have loved to come,” said the vicar, 
“but she was busy bathing her little ones. It is a labour 
of love.” 

Sheila looked at Peg’s shoulders, which twitched sudt 
denly, then remained still. 

The baby was still crying. Augustus was fussing over 
it. Peg took no notice. 

In the evening when the baby was in bed and the 
nurse out for a walk and Augustus at his confirmation 
class. Peg and Sheila sat by the fire with a box of cigarettes 
between them. 

“How do I stand it?” said Peg with a vehement, miser¬ 
able smile. 

“It’s so humorous,” said Sheila, hiding a sudden com¬ 
passionate look with a grin. 

“Yes,” said Peg brightening, “it’s damned humorous. 
It’s like living amongst human caricatures. It would 
kill me really, only for the fact that whenever I’m with 
any of them I’m always thinking of how I’ll tell you all 
about it and make you laugh.” 

Sheila took a cigarette. 

“I suppose Augustus is safe out for an hour or two?’' 

“He’ll be out all evening. He’s going on to the vicar’s 
after the confirmation class.” She paused. “Isn’t it 
funny I’m married to him?” 

“He’s very good,” said Sheila guardedly. 

“But isn’t it funny I’m married to him? I?” 


6o 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“He likes the baby, doesn’t he?” 

“Yes. But I don’t feel as though it’s mine. I wonder 
do other women ever feel like that.” 

“When he gets older you’ll get fonder of him.” 

“I don’t dislike it at all. I just feel that it doesn’t 
belong to me. Yet when it was born and I heard it 
cry, and every one walked so quietly and I wasn’t quite 
out of the chloroform, I felt I loved it. But not now.” 

“You will, later on.” 

“You hear such wonderful things about motherhood.” 

“Perhaps,” said Sheila feebly, “you haven’t the ma¬ 
ternal instinct.” 

“You’ve got my share.” 

“I haven’t any at all.” 

“Your man-hating amuses me.” 

“I’m quite serious about it. Though it isn’t hate 
exactly. It’s suspicion.” 

“You go out with them all the same.” 

“Just for interesting companionship and-” 

“And?” Peg’s eyes glistened. 

“There’s something exciting about them.” 

“Ah!” 

“But that wears off as I get to know them. The excite¬ 
ment is only the excitement of the explorer. I discover 
them, their characters and temperaments, and when I’ve 
discovered everything, I’m finished.” 

“Queer little cuss, aren’t you?” 

“I can’t help it. I think I must have a horrible 
nature. You know Stapleton Murray? Well, at first I 
was flattered, he doesn’t bother with girls generally. Then 
later when he got to look—^you know—disturbed and 
humble and burning, I felt triumphant, that’s all. I 



DIFFERENT GODS 6i 

wasn’t touched a bit, not with tenderness. I mean 
only-” 

^‘Excitement.” 

“Yes. Men are women’s only adventures. Aren’t 
they? I even thought, looking at Stapleton, ‘Ah! You 
are a man with a man’s strength and a man’s power over 
lives.’ She paused, smiling sombrely. ‘Yet at this mo¬ 
ment you are in my power.’ Of course,” she paused con¬ 
temptuously, “ if I were to love him completely his interest 
in me would cease. There’s the baby 1 And nurse is out.” 

“Sally will see to him.” 

“Who’s Sally?” 

“The new nursemaid. I chose her because of the glint 
in her eye. Augustus wanted a mealy-mouthed female 
with a long waist and a cold, but I was all for Sally.” 

“Don’t get too friendly with her. You know how 
Augustus hates it.” 

“Yes.” Peg smiled unhappily. “He’s sent Mrs. Abbott 
away because he knew I liked her.” 

“It’s because he thinks they get familiar.” 

“And why shouldn’t they? I suppose I encourage 
them. I’d rather talk to them any day than to any of 
his friends with their bleak eyes and their platitudes. 
The lower classes live at any rate, and they don’t mind 
owning to it. You could talk to Augustus’ friends for 
weeks and never know a thing about them. They’re 
always watching themselves.” 

“They think it a sign of perfect breeding, I expect.” 

“No, it’s natural suspicion. They’ve a sort of horrible 
modesty. They’re always covering up their thoughts and 
feelings as though nakedness even in the abstract shocked 
them. Now Sally, oh, I took to her at once. She^s hand- 



62 


DIFFERENT GODS 


some, too. I love handsome people. And she’s healthy 
and absolutely clean.” 

Peg rang the bell. 

‘‘Yes’m?” 

Sally came into the room. She was big, broad, feminine 
and very white-skinned. Her hair was light-brown and 
thick, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were perfectly 
blue, defiant and cool. She was holding the baby skilfully, 
stroking his tiny nose, laughing deeply and pretending 
to scold. ^Thought he’d shout, did he? And show he’s 
a man? But let me catch you at it again, you bad little 
scamp. I’ll break every bone in your body, I will. Little 
villain!” Her voice died away in kisses. 

^‘Have you asked your mother if she’s coming to help 
on Fridays?” asked Peg. 

“Yes’m, she’s coming.” 

‘^Nurse doesn’t approve of you kissing the baby,” said 
Peg with amusement. 

^‘Doesn’t she!” said Sally, her eyes hard. “She looks 
as though she doesn’t. I bet her mother left her on a 
doorstep. Doesn’t want me to kiss him,” she said to the 
baby who blinked at her affectionately. “Love’s good 
for babies. It keeps away illness.” 

“I hope she doesn’t talk like that before Augustus,” 
said Sheila, when Sally had gone out of the room. 

“She doesn’t,” said Peg with a laugh. “And how she 
despises him!” 

“D’you mind?” 

“Why should I? I despise him myself. I’m glad her 
mother’s coming on Fridays. She’s a good worker. Do 
you like the new curtains? How I hate housework! I’ve 
had nothing but curtains from Augustus for weeks. He’s 


DIFFERENT GODS 63 

incapable of talking of several things at a time. D’you 
know who I saw yesterday?” 

^‘Jimmy,” said Sheila, hearing the softness of Peg’s 
voice. 

^‘Yes. He’s as beautiful as ever. I stopped him and 
we talked for a while. Then we went for a walk.” 

“Oh Peg!” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s Augustus I’m thinking of. He’s quiet and slow, 
but if he were angry-” 

“Listen. I wouldn’t be afraid of him if he stood over 
me with a knife. That’s how I feel about him. He’s 
been so angry sometimes that his eyes have all turned 
into light, and I haven’t minded.* Wasn’t I a damned 
fool marrying him? And yet at the time, it saved me. 
Let’s go somewhere.” 

“Where?” 

“A music-hall or somewhere.” 

Sheila’s eyes laughed. “After the christening?” 

“Because of it. I always have to let steam off after 
a dose of holy people.” 

She went upstairs to Sally. “Sally, tell Mr. Binns I’ve 
gone for a walk with Miss Sheila.” 

“Yes’m,” said Sally, understanding. 



CHAPTER IX 


W E’LL go to a music-hall/’ said Peg, ‘They’re 
always so bright, and noisy, and gay, and 
irresponsible. You don’t know how I feel 
sometimes when Augustus sighs about the place. I’d 
much rather he hit me.” 

Sheila was silent. 

“I’m going to lend you a book I’ve just read. It’s 
called The Second Blooming. I hope I have a second 
blooming.” 

She stared at the roofs of the houses as she spoke as 
though looking upwards helped her heart to beat and 
repeated, murmuring, “I hope I have a second blooming.” 

“I’m reading The Cloister and the Hearth. It’s 
wonderful.” 

“I couldn’t bear to read of dead people.” 

“But people living yesterday can be dead to-day.” 
“That doesn’t matter. It’s when they’re dead ages 
and ages that they’re so dull. I like books to be about 
people in fashionable clothes falling in love. I don’t like 
discussions and all that. I wish I did. I’d love to be 
able to read Ruskin, Spencer, H. G. Wells, and Chaucer, 
and all those people.” 

“Why should you? Why should you read any book 
you don’t enjoy? I hate those people who talk of Brown¬ 
ing and really prefer Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Why shouldn’t 
thev prefer her?” 

“They like to think they like the best.” 

64 


DIFFERENT GODS 65 

‘Tut who is to know what is best? ‘Home Sweet Home’ 
is jingling poetry, yet it can make hard men cry.” 

“I love The Second Blooming. It’s a book that just 
suits me. It makes me feel as though there are other 
people in the world as much a nuisance as I am. The 
lady parishioners are all so balanced and steady and sane. 
The helpmeet type.” 

“I’d rather be the sweetmeat type,” said Sheila. “Now 
laugh.” 

Peg’s laugh rang out and removed her from her tem¬ 
porary seriousness. 

“The churchwarden has just bought a set of Dickens.” 

“How I love that man!” 

“The churchwarden?” 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“I hate him.” 

“How can you possibly hate Dickens?” 

“He hasn’t written one good love tale.” 

“Oh! You’re always talking about love!” 

“But what else is there to talk about?” asked Peg 
patiently. 

“Lots and lots and lots of things!” 

“For instance-” 

“Poetry, for one thing.” 

“And that’s nearly always about love.” 

“Music.” 

“That cries of nothing else but love.” 

“Did I tell you about Gilbert Baxter?” 

“No, tell me,” said Peg, her eyes brightening up as 
they always did at the mention of a man. 

“I’m going to the opera with him on Friday. He’s 
a man that’s absolutely made of music, in fact there’s 
nothing else in him.” 



66 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘Df course there is I’’ ’ 

“There isn’t really. That’s what I liked about him. 
He never makes me feel that he’s a man and I’m not, 
as most men do. Never pays compliments or looks idiotic. 
Just talks about music.” 

“He’d bore me to death.” 

“Here we are! How much are the seats?” 

“This is my show.” 

“Augustus dislikes indiscriminate charity.” 

“Augustus may go to Hades. I’m sure he’d be in¬ 
terested there, his mind dwells on it so much.” 
“Doesn’t a theatre smell jolly?” said Sheila happily. 
“Ah!” said Peg, her eyes shining. 

“Where are our seats?” 

“Eighth row.” 

They pushed their way along and seated themselves. 
“Ah!” said Peg again. 

“Look,” said Sheila, in surprise, “there’s Gilbert.” 
“Where?” 

“Third row—and with a girl.” 

“Why not?” 

“Gilbert!” 

“I can’t find him.” 

“Count four from the left along the third row.” 

“How good-looking! But the girl, my child!” 
“Funny-looking, isn’t she?” 

“Reminiscent of a bar. Not that I’ve been in one, 

though I’d love to!” 

* 

“I wouldn’t have dreamt he’d admire a girl like that.” 
“I don’t suppose he does admire her.” 

“Then why does he take her out?” 

“If I were a man I wouldn’t have to admire a girl 
before taking her out—not unless I were in a Sunday 


DIFFERENT GODS 


67 

sort of mood. I’d take out all sorts just to see what 
they were like. It’s rotten being a woman. I’d like to 
go out with all sorts of men-” 

“And you’re married to Augustus!” said Sheila, hugging 
her arm and laughing. 

“Yes,” said Peg, “it is a scream if you look at it one 
way.” 

“Gilbert’s turning round.” 

“Smile at him.’^ 

“No.” 

“I want to know him.” 

“You will some day.” 

“Some day’s too far off for me.” 

“Come with us to the opera on Friday.” 

“Yes, I will. That’s something to look forward to, 
seeing Gilbert I mean, not listening to the opera, which 
is bound to be dull. Send me a postcard inviting me to 
tea. Ye gods! How I’m always having to invent excuses 
for simple things! Come early for me on Friday.” 

On Friday Sheila found her dressed with daring discre¬ 
tion. She wore black ninon, and her arms gleamed 
through it. The grey of her restless eyes had darkened 
with excitement, and she kept stroking her lips with her 
forefinger. 

When Sheila introduced Gilbert to her she laughed 
frankly, saying, “I wanted to meet you.” 

As they went into the theatre she said, “I hate opera 
really, but I’ll try and like this one. Sheila finds such 
comfort in music. I wish I could.” 

“Perhaps you don’t need it.” 

“I? Not need it? Comfort?” 

He saw her unhappy smile and concentrated his gaze 
upon her. 



68 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Aware of it, she smiled, exhilarated, twisted her arm 
in her transparent sleeve and sighed slightly, once. 

The music, beginning, captured his interest. He and 
Sheila sat entranced, dazed with the joy that music 
brings. Peg moved uneasily in her seat, disturbed by 
what, to her, was noise. He turned and gave her a vague, 
responsive smile. 

When they were going out of the theatre, he said 
to her, “You didn’t enjoy it after all.” 

“No, but I liked sitting by you.” 

“And I liked sitting by you.” He flushed a little, em¬ 
barrassed and elated. 

“May I take you to some other form of entertainment?” 

“Yes, I like musical comedy and music-halls.” 

“Shall I write to you or shall we make arrangements 
now?” 

“Let’s make arrangements now.” 

He spoke quietly, as though unwilling for Sheila to hear, 
but P.eg did not lower her voice. 


CHAPTER X 


"‘TT LIKE him,” she said to Sheila, some weeks later. 
I later. 

JL ‘‘Gilbert?’^ 

‘‘Yes.^’ 

“I like him too.’^ 

Peg gave a sudden, soft laugh. 

“You aren’t a bit jealous.” 

“Why should I be?” 

“You’re a funny girl.” 

“Just because I’m not obsessed by thoughts of love?” 

“As I am.” 

“Yes.” Sheila spoke kindly and frankly. “You are, 
aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Peg. 

“I don’t mind at all, although in the abstract I hate 
it; this being obsessed by love, I mean.” 

“You’re far nicer than your opinions. If I broke 
every one of the Ten Commandments ten times a day, 
you’d go on liking me.” 

“Pooh!” said Sheila affectionately. “Don’t be so sure. 
I mightn’t.” 

“You would! When are you going to get married?” 

“You seem to worry about me. I don’t worry at all 
about myself.” 

“I don’t worry, really. But I’m not a bit superior and 
highfalutin’! And I hate to see girls walking to the altar 
attractive and eligible men that you’ve refused.” 

“But if I’d wanted them I wouldn’t have refused them.” 

“Why don’t you want them?” 

“I don’t know. I like men occasionally, but not always. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


70 

I often think first in the morning. ^Thank goodness there 
isn’t a man about.’ And if I’m deep in a book I feel glad 
there’s no danger of a husband coming in and interrupting 
me. I’m often quite delighted and interested in men. 
But I only like to be with them when I’m in the mood, 
and when I’m feeling my best and looking my best. Now 
I ought to feel I’d like a man always, before I marry 
him.” 

^Tunny old girl, aren’t you?” said Peg wistfully. 
“You’re going to get it so badly one of these days.” 

“I don’t think so. I could only love an impossible ideal. 
I’m not proud of that fact, I’m merely stating it. It’s 
stupid and sentimental and anything you like, but it’s 
there.” 

“What is your ideal?” 

“It’s very vague. It’s only that I require a man to be 
friend and brother and lover all rolled into one. I want 
him to be kinder than I am, and stronger and nobler. I 
want to want him always, not only now and again.” She 
sighed. “I wish I could be easily satisfied.” 

“I am.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila thoughtfully, “I wish I were. It 
sounds silly to say it, but I do want to love a man with 
my soul.” 

“Only that way?” 

“Yes, anything else would spoil it. I wonder why it 
is that I loathe being touched. I went to the pictures 
and there was a girl and a man in front. The way he 
mauled her about! I couldn’t have stood it.” 

“I suppose she looked quite happy.” 

“Quite! Peg, am I queer? Should I be satisfied, 
too, with a man, as long as he is nice and puts his arms 
round me? I feel so guilty sometimes. But I can’t help 


DIFFERENT GODS 


71 

it.’’ Her voice went shy. ‘‘I do think love could be 
beautiful if you get the right man, some one who’d under¬ 
stand you and who you wouldn’t have to hide from.” 

‘‘Hide from?” 

“Yes, I’m always hiding my thoughts from men.” Her 
eyes darkened with earnestness. “When I meet a man I 
won’t have to hide from, then I’ll know-” 

Peg looked hard at her. 

“I’ll know,” repeated Sheila, dim-eyed. 

Peg bent forward and poked the fire. 

“I met Doctor Strongitharm again,” said Sheilaf. 

“Did you?” 

“We went for a walk. I do like him.” 

“He’s done for himself, hasn’t he?” 

“I heard something about it, not much.” 

“He’s engaged to a girl who’s dying of consumption. 
She fairly got hold of him. I’m not blaming her. I’d 
do the same myself if I were fond of a man.” 

“How did she get hold of him?” 

“Her mother thought that Dr. Howard wasn’t doing 
her any good, so she took her to Strongitharm. She im¬ 
mediately fell violently in love with him—and showed it. 
He tried to get away. But she used to cry when he didn’t 
come, and even visited him. The mother was very smart 
too. Strongitharm’s clever and manly, but he’s soft¬ 
hearted. So I’ve heard. I don’t know the man.” 

“Are they going to marry, then?” 

“No. Strongitharm’s a doctor, my child, and the 
girl’s dying of consumption.” 

“So they’re just going to be engaged until—until-” 

“She pegs out.” 

“Poor thing!” 




72 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^‘Yes, it’s damned rotten to have to die at any time, 
but especially when you’re young.” 

like Doctor Strongitharm. I could be friends with 
him. He has such a patient smile, and brown, strong 
hands like God’s. He walks like God too, and has the 
same compassionate eyes. He’s going to teach me golf.” 

“Mad game!” 

“I used to think so too. Still, if he plays it there must 
be something in it.” 

“Here’s my dearly-beloved husband.” 

“Hello 1 ” said Sheila when he entered the room. 

“Good afternoon.” 

“What a splendid collection you had on Sunday!” 

“It was a most gratifying collection. Margaret, please 
tell Sally not to use the exclamation, T^sus, Mar}", Joseph,’ 
before the baby.” 

“Is that what she says?” said Peg, giggling. “Jesus, 
Mary, Joseph!” 

“Don’t repeat it,” said Augustus sharply. 

“He thinks he frightens me,” said Peg to Sheila. 

Sheila smiled nervously. 

Augustus gazed at his wife with despair and reproach^ 


CHAPTER XI 


G randmother,” said sheiia, “do you ever 

feel queer, looking at Peg and Augustus? I 
do;^ 

^‘She married him.’’ 

‘‘But she married him without thought.” 

“Many a woman thinks, and thinks, and thinks, yet 
her marriage is not a happy one.” 

“You don’t believe any marriage is happy, do you?” 
“A few may be.” 

Grandmother went on knitting, and Sheila gazed at 
her face, which seemed to develop fresh wrinkles every 
day. 

“Women never get what they want,” said Grandmother, 
“because only a man can give it them, and he never knows 
how, or else he doesn’t care. There was my sister Cath¬ 
erine. She was pretty and had a great deal of dignity. 
Most men who met her loved her, but she was scornful of 
them all. Then she loved a soldier and all her scorn went. 
He said he would write, and went away, but he didn’t 
write. She wrote, but he didn’t answer, and she looked 
out of the window every day for the postman to come. 
Then long after, when Catherine was thin with waiting, 
he came unexpectedly. I saw him come, and I said to 
Catherine, ‘I will speak with him. You must keep away. 
He has insulted you by his silence.’ 

“She said, ‘Yes, I must keep away.’ 

“So I spoke to him, and I told him he must never dare 
to enter our house again or attempt to speak to Catherine. 
He said, ‘Let me speak to her this once.’ I said, ‘No,’ for 

73 


DIFFERENT GODS 


74 

she was too weak. Then I went out of the room to make 
sure she was upstairs and out of reach. But she was 
outside the door, and when she saw my look she said, 
breathing loudly, leaning against the wall, Dnly let me 
hear his voice.’ But I put her in a room and locked the 
door and sent him away.” 

‘‘You had no right to,” said Sheila in a soft, furious 
voice. 

“No right? You forget your age and mine.” 

“Were you much older than I am when you did 
that?” 

“I was your age.” 

“Well, I say to you, when you were my age, that you 
did wrong.” 

“What? Wasn’t I right in protecting my sister’s weak¬ 
ness with my strength? Would you have had me watch 
her marry a scoundrel?” 

“You gave him no chance of explaining. You gave 
her no chance to judge. No one has any right to decide 
another person’s fate.” 

“You are disrespectful and impudent.” 

“No,” said Sheila unhappily. “Why do you always say 
that when I say my own thoughts and they don’t agree 
with yours?” 

“You think too much, you should sew more.” 

“You think, too.” 

“I sew as well.” 

Sheila went out, glad she was due at the golf links. 

Philip Strongitharm was waiting for her. He was 
almost tall, strongly built, but lean, dark, clear-skinned, 
and grave. He had a beautiful happy smile and a way 
of bending his head when he spoke to women, as though 


DIFFERENT GODS 


75 

he felt they were beings that needed to be tenderly 
treated. 

He handed her an iron. 

‘‘See how you get on with that, first,” he said. “IFs 
a little light one. It won’t be too heavy, will it?” 

“I don’t thinK so. But how funny it feels. What shall 
I do with it? Let’s get away from these people. They 
all look clever golfers.” 

“We’ll go over there behind those trees.” 

“But it will be so dull for you watching me practise.” 

“It won’t be a bit dull.” 

He showed her the swing, and she tried to do it 
properly. After a while she said, “Can we have a little 
rest? It makes my wrists so tired.” 

He smiled, looking at her narrow white wrists. She 
looked at his, and thought how very like God’s they 
were. 

“Let’s have a cup of tea in the club-house. You’re 
bound to be tired first of all.” 

They had tea and she revived a little, but she still 
quivered with the memory of her Grandmother’s attitude 
towards life. 

He took her round the course, after tea, to show her 
what the game was like, and then it became too dark to 
see the ball. 

“Let’s take a little walk before I see you home, it’s 
such a beautiful evening.” 

“Don’t take me home.” 

She looked for an expression of surprise, but he only 
said, “All right.” 

“Grandmother might see you. She would question 
me about you—and—and—I can’t explain it, but it 
would all be horrid.” She didn’t say that he was the 


DIFFERENT GODS 


76 

first man to whom she had been able to say that, but 
the fact filled her with surprise. 

‘‘Grandmother makes me very miserable sometimes.” 

“Does she?” 

“She’s good and kind, but—” she stopped inarticu¬ 
late. 

“Why,” he said, “you’re trembling.” 

“Grandmother makes me frightened of Life.” 

“She shouldn’t do that.” 

“Of course she’s older than I am, and knows more-” 

“Does it follow?” 

She didn’t answer, but she felt like a fatherless child 
that had found a father. So little had been said by 
either of them, and yet his presence gave her exquisite 
comfort. She had never said a word about Grandmother 
to other men, she had never expressed any weakness. But 
to him she didn’t mind appearing foolish and childish, and 
yet she prized his opinion of her. 

“Oh, look at this!” She stopped to look at the trees 
that stretched along the lane, smiling faintly with rapture. 
“Trees make me feel so funny. And look at the evening. 
It’s too beautiful to bear! D’you see the sky?” 

“It’s a pretty sky—that’ll all I can say of it.” 

“Look at the colours, heliotrope, grey, palest pink. And 
look at that piece over there, like a lace handkerchief 
with spots of blood upon it.” 

He didn’t speak, but she felt his inward start, and 
she remembered the consumptive girl who loved him. 

She walked on again. “Wait till it’s night time, and 
you’ll find the darkness isn’t dark when you look at the 
trunks of the trees. They go so black that everything 
looks pale beside them. The blackest sky looks navy- 
blue, and the leaves are like pieces of twilight.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


77 


^‘You’re a funny little girl,” he said in a strange voice. 

I funny?” she said, ashamed. always try 
to hide it.” 

‘‘Don’t hide it any more—not when you’re with me.” 

“Needn’t I?” 

She smiled happily. 

“When are you going to play golf with me again?” 

Her smile receded. 

“I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed in me. You 
admire people who play games well, don’t you? The 
clubs are so heavy. Very likely I’ll get used to them. 
At present they hurt my hands.” 

“They’re such slender little things.” 

He picked them up, stroking them gently. She thought 
suddenly of Willie, and sought to withdraw them, but 
he held them safely, without effort, and without pressure. 
She looked at him very earnestly, and he returned her 
gaze. The beauty of the evening turned into song. She 
heard its music, and listened, entranced. 

As she walked home she looked at the sky, trying to 
peer through it to look at God. She wished He would 
reach down His Hand so that she could hold it, and 
lay it, in passionate gratitude, against her cheek. 


CHAPTER XII 


F or three months Sheila and Strongitharm played 
golf together frequently. Or rather he played, 
and she struggled to imitate him. She was 
obviously intensely anxious to do well, and the fact 
amused him. 

He had only to say, ‘‘Miss Hammond gets some splendid 
drives,” and Sheila would struggle desperately to hit the 
ball far, and looked crushed with disappointment when 
she missed it. So he stopped praising feminine golfers. 

Knowing his admiration for athletics she became dis¬ 
satisfied with her body, which was of slender make, and 
did exercises every morning to develop her muscles. 

She said to Peg. “I’ve found what I wanted—a per¬ 
fect friend.” 

“Who’s that? Strongitharm?” 

“Yes. It’s beautiful.” 

“H’m.” 

“I’d almost got used to warding off affectionate moods 
in men. Sometimes the mere thought of a kiss or any¬ 
thing used to make me sick. But with Dr. Strongitharm 
there’s nothing of that. Of course there couldn’t be in any 
case, he being engaged to Miss Cooper.” 

“H’m,” said Peg again. 

“Seen Gilbert lately?” 

“Yes. Have you?” 

“No. How is he?” 

Peg’s eyes grew secretive. 

78 


DIFFERENT GODS 79 

^‘He’s very well. He thought I was a widow at first. 
Did you know that?” 

“No, but I can understand how he got the idea. I 
often talked of you, but never of Augustus or the baby. 
I don^t know why, but you never seem to belong to them 
really.” 

“I don’t. He got quite a shock when he heard about 
Augustus.” 

“Does he like Augustus?” 

“He doesn’t know him. Don’t mention Gilbert in the 
house.” 

“How’s Sally?” 

“She’s got a young man, but I don’t think she wants 
him.” 

“What’s she having him for, then?” 

“Just to go out with and be kissed by.” 

“Ugh!” said Sheila with a violent shudder. “Fancy 
having a man you don’t love, just for that!” 

“If it weren’t for your bad, bad eyes, my child, I’d 
be inclined to think you possess the old maid’s tempera¬ 
ment.” 

“I haven’t bad eyes!” said Sheila coldly. 

“You have, and believe me they are your greatest 
asset.” 

“Dr. Strongitharm doesn’t think I’ve bad eyes. He 
thinks they’re good.” 

“So you’ve got to talk about eyes, have you?” 

“Oh, Peg!” said Sheila impatiently. 

When she and Strongitharm were strolling away from 
the links one evening she said, “You don’t think I’ve 
got bad eyes, do you?” 

“No,” he said in surprise. “Who says you have?” 

“I was just wondering,” she said, relieved. She didn’t 


8 o DIFFERENT GODS 

mind if other people thought they were bad as long 
as he didn’t. 

Walking along the silent, tree-bordered lane, she be¬ 
came deliciously aware of the friendship that existed 
between them. She had only known him three months 
and yet they had reached intimacy. She remembered 
the thoughts and wonderings of her childhood and of 
the need she had known for concealing them. Locking 
her thoughts in her heart had almost become a habit. 
Grandmother’s frown was so forbidding. Peg’s light 
laugh affectionately belittled her, and young men so 
easily said, half dismayed, half admiring, “How quaint 
you are! ” unless she guarded herself. 

She never guarded herself with Strongitharm, or con¬ 
cealed her thoughts and feelings. Talking to him was 
like having a burden removed, a burden that had grown 
so gradually that its weight ha'd almost gone unnoticed. 
And yet its removal brought relief. 

“Have you noticed I’m getting more athletic?” she 
asked after a short silence in which she hoped he would 
make some comment on the sturdier walk she studiously 
affected. 

“No, I can’t say I have.” 

“But you must.” 

He turned, smiling to her. 

“Why must I?” 

“I mean you’re bound to notice a difference. I drill 
every morning.” 

“What for?” 

“To develop my muscles.” 

“Oh, don’t do that.” 

“But-” 

“You’re just right as you are.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


8 i 


He spoke quite quietly, and in the manner of one stating 
an indisputable fact. 

She glowed all over. He thought she was just right 
as she was. Of course she wasn’t, but he thought 
so! 

think it’s lovely being friends like this.” 

“Do you? So do I.” 

He turned to look at her with his extraordinary tender 
smile. 

“What a warm evening it is!” 

“Must you go home now?” 

“No. Grandmother will think I’ve gone to Peg’s. Isn’t 
that deceitful of me? But strict people make one deceit¬ 
ful. You’ve no idea, being a man.” 

“I’ve a very good idea.”/ 

“Let’s sit down here. Golf makes me so tired. What 
a beautiful tree! It’s like a mother spreading out her 
arms.” 

“What a funny little mind you’ve got!” 

“I don’t mind you saying that. Isn’t that odd? Be¬ 
cause with some people it makes me furious.” 

“But you have a funny little mind, haven’t you?” he 
asked in gentle teasing. 

“I don’t think so myself. I always see people in trees, 
but if you’ve got eyes you can’t help seeing them!” 

“I don’t see people in trees. I wish I did.” 

“Do you really?” 

“You must show me all the things you see.” 

“And you won’t laugh?” 

“Have I ever laughed?” 

“Sometimes, but so nicely I haven’t minded. D’you 
know that tree by the corner house of the road I live in? 
Whenever I pass it it says with a courtly bow, ^Good- 


82 


DIFFERENT GODS 


morning, Sheila,’ or ‘Good-evening.’ The big beech tree 
farther down is always gruff. I think he has gout.” 

“What does that little almond tree say? The one by 
the bend of the road.” 

She answered simply, “It talks to me of Beatrice.” 

“Who is Beatrice?” 

She flushed faintly, evading his question. “Is that the 
only tree you’ve noticed?” 

“Yes. I’ve known, of course, there are trees of all 
sorts along the road, but that’s the only one I’ve noticed, 
it’s so tiny and delicate and sweet.” 

“How strange!” 

“But who is Beatrice?” 

“She’s my daughter.” 

He turned to her suddenly. 

“Have you a daughter?” 

“Not a real one.” 

“A real one?” 

“It’s the daughter I’m going to have—I hope to have, 
some day.” 

“I see.” 

He turned his head away from her and stared at the 
sky. She thought with a terrible feeling of dread, “Ah! 
that has strained even his patience! He’s contemptuous 
of that.” 

When he turned back to her again to ask gravely, 
“Why Beatrice?” she answered, her eyes scared, “Just 
because I think it’s a beautiful name.” 

He smiled at her sweetly, regarding her in silence for 
awhile. She could see he wasn’t impatient or contemp¬ 
tuous, so went on happily. “There’s one thing that worries 
me—^people might call her ‘Beaty’ or ‘Bee.’ ” 

“I shouldn’t allow that,” he said gravely. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


83 


‘^No. I must put my foot down there.” 
certainly should.” 

“What are you thinking of?” 

“Nothing.” 

“That isn’t true. A thought passed over your face. 
I saw it.” 

“I was thinking of Beatrice.” 

“Were you?” She smiled happily. “How nice! I 
want you to love her, you know! In fact I should like 
you to be her godfather.” She paused. “You’re not 
pleased.” 

“I’m quite pleased.” He formed his mouth for 
whistling, but made no sound. “And when is Beatrice 
going to arrive?” 

She answered gravely. “That is the difficulty. I can’t 
find anyone good enough to be her father. I’ve often 
thought of a man, ^No, you would be fairly suitable for me, 
but you wouldn’t be good enough for Beatrice.’ You see 
I couldn’t share her with anybody not absolutely-” 

“Absolutely-” 

“I can’t explain it.” She paused. “You’ve no idea 
how much Beatrice has complicated my life.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Peg gets grumpy sometimes because I discourage 
what she calls eligible men. I even get worried myself 
about myself. But it’s all Beatrice. I’ve often been— 

been—on the point-” She stopped in shyness, unable 

to say, “on the point of being in love with some one.” 

“Yes?” he said understanding. 

“Then Beatrice has stepped in, and I’ve thought ^No, 
not you! You aren’t the one.’ ” 

“You’re a dear little girl, aren’t you?” 





84 


DIFFERENT, GODS 


don’t think I am, but if you think so, I’m pleased.” 

^‘What a lot of little troubles you’ve gotl ” 

“Yes. Life’s very bewildering, don’t you think so?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“It is for a girl. Especially when you fight shy of 
things as Peg says I do. She’s right, too. I hear an 
ugly thing and believe it’s true and feel dreadful about 
it, and then I ignore it and pretend it isn’t there.” 

“Very wise.” 

“No, because the majority of people don’t do that, and 
then-” 

“I think you’re very wise.” 

“Do you? Once when I was fifteen and feeling so 
happy to be getting grown-up, I went to stay at a farm¬ 
house and it was terrible—the things they said—and the 
way they looked at life—it made me so miserable for a 
long time, it’s still left its mark on me, deep, deep inside, 
and yet somehow now I don’t believe it at all. When I 
came back I couldn’t bear to think of Beatrice—she 
hadn’t a name then—I thought I never, never wanted 
to have her. But she came creeping back, and everything 
was the same again.” 

“That’s good.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Better be going?” 

“I think so.” 

He lifted her up from the grass, and put his hands on 
her shoulders, and looked and looked at her. 

“Will I ever be good enough to be Beatrice’s father?” 
he said. 

She stared at him, astonished. He had given her a 
thought she had not possessed. 

He asked her the question again, and though she 



DIFFERENT^ GODS 85 

guessed the answer she said with great solemnity, ‘‘I 
don^t know.’’ 

‘‘I hope so,” he said. 

“Once I thought of a knight,” she said, “and an in¬ 
superable obstacle was going to part us.” 

“There’s an obstacle,” he said, “but it isn’t insuper¬ 
able.” 

“Good night.” 

“Good night.” 

He wished to kiss her, but forbore, the child-like ear¬ 
nestness of her eyes forbade him. Her lips, though soft 
and red, were austere, and her attitude was one of help¬ 
lessness and trust. He did not touch her with his lips, 
but, though he did not know it, his smile expressed a kiss, 
and she was aware of his yearning. 

Humble at his understanding, and glad beyond her 
dreams, for she too felt that a kiss just then would have 
vulgarized a lovely moment, she laid her head on the 
hand that still held her shoulder, then turned away. 


CHAPTER XIII 


S HE went to the links in the mornings to practise 
by herself. Miss Hammond was generally there. 
She was a big, broad, strong girl, with a high 
colour, big teeth, and rather handsome features. She 
walked with long strides and played golf as well as any 
man. 

She took to smiling at Sheila in the dressing-room. 
Sheila always smiled shyly back, for between good golfers 
and bad golfers there is a great gulf fixed, and each time 
Sheila looked at Miss Hammond she became miserably 
aware of her own futile drives and erratic approaches. 
One morning Miss Hammond offered to play with her. 
Sheila, overcome by the honour, protested against such 
a sacrifice on the part of Miss Hammond. Miss Ham¬ 
mond smiled and insisted on taking her round. 

She carried Sheila’s clubs for her, and spoke to her 
with the utmost gentleness. When they got back to the 
ladies’ room she took hold of Sheila’s hands and said, 
gazing straight into her eyes, “How feminine you are I” 
Sheila thought this a very peculiar remark seeing that 
Miss Hammond was also of the feminine gender, but 
merely said, “Do you think so? Thanks so much for 
taking me round.” 

“I’ll take you round again, any time-” 

“But what of your handicap?” 

“That doesn’t matter.” 

“But it does I” said Sheila, not hiding her astonishment 

at finding a golfer to whom a handicap didn’t matter. 

86 



DIFFERENT GODS 


B 7 

“No it doesn’t,” said Miss Hammond, still gazing into 
Sheila’s eyes. 

Sheila, uncomfortable, moved away and changed her 
shoes. 

The next time she was in the ladies’ room Miss Ham¬ 
mond suddenly caught hold of her and kissed her. 

Sheila started away, her eyes bright with anger and 
surprise, and Miss Hammond said humbly, “I love you 
so.” 

Sheila tried to smile but couldn’t. She said she had 
a headache and couldn’t play that morning, and went 
home, wondering at her sudden hatred of Miss Ham¬ 
mond, and blaming herself for it. It was very nice of 
Miss Hammond to have grown so fond of her. Why 
did it make her feel so sick? Of course the woman was 
over-demonstrative, but Sheila was rather demonstrative 
herself. She couldn’t get the incident out of her mind, 
and visualized Miss Hammond’s disappointed, hurt ex¬ 
pression when she had said curtly she was going home. 

She forced herself to be nice to her the next time she 
met, and Miss Hammond was openly delighted. She 
took Sheila round again, and gave her a great deal of 
help. Sheila returned to the club-house, happily pictur¬ 
ing the surprise Dr. Strongitharm would get when he saw 
her play, and she sat at a small table with Miss Ham¬ 
mond in high spirits. She ordered tea, and then was em¬ 
barrassed to find Miss Hammond’s eyes fixed upon her, 
humble, entreating, shining. Sheila’s spirits sank. She 
tried to be nice to Miss Hammond, but couldn’t suppress 
an inward shrinking. 

Miss Hammond kept touching her hands, and said 
once more, “You are so feminine.” 

Sheila smiled nervously and asked Miss Hammond if 


88 DIFFERENT GODS 

she had read much lately, adding, ‘^I’d rather like to 
write a book.” 

“Books should be written about you,” said Miss Ham¬ 
mond. “You shouldn’t write about other people.” She 
touched Sheila lingeringly on the arm. “I’ve written 
a poem to you.” 

“Do you write poems?” asked Sheila in surprise. 

“Only when I love people.” 

Sheila began to drink her tea, frowning slightly. She 
couldn’t reconcile the poem-writing Miss Hammond with 
the golfing one, and she experienced the difficulty of 
successfully throwing off a first impression. Miss Ham¬ 
mond at first had seemed to be merely a strong, out-of- 
door woman with a frank, clumsy walk. And now she 
filled Sheila with unaccountable repugnance. 

She received the poem next day by post. It was simply 
a succession of musical lines describing in detail Sheila’s 
physical attributes, both visible and invisible. It spoilt 
the day for Sheila, she couldn’t tell why, and she was 
finally driven to saying to Grandmother, “There’s a wo¬ 
man at the golf club, she’s about thirty, I think, and 
she’s terribly fond of me.” 

“You seem to complain of that.” 

“I do. I can’t bear it.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know. She’s always wanting to kiss me and 
put her arms around me.” 

“What of that?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sheila, convinced that she was a 
hard-hearted girl and deciding to be very nice to Miss 
Hammond the next day she saw her. 

Miss Hammond was humbly delighted at her softened 
attitude. She kissed Sheila again, with a sort of frenzy, 


DIFFERENT GODS 89 

and Sheila, her heart turning over, persisted in bearing it. 
Miss Hammond asked her to go and have tea with her 
at her home next day, and spoke in the voice of one so^ 
liciting a very great favour. 

The next day when she was ready for going Sheila 
suddenly said to her grandmother, “I don’t want to go.” 

“You talk like a child.” 

“She might kiss me and all that.” 

“Poor woman! You are very hard on her.” 

“I know I am,” said Sheila helplessly, “but I can’t help 
it. I’m awfully horrid to her, and she looks at me obe¬ 
diently like a dog—and she’s such a good golfer, and 
I-” 

“What has that to do with it?” 

“A great deal. I used to look at her with awe.” 

“You had better go, child.” 

“Yes.” 

Miss Hammond received her in silence, but her eyes 
shone, and her arms stretched out. Sheila avoided them 
and took off her hat and coat. Miss Hammond said her 
mother was out. Did Sheila mind? Sheila was surprised 
to find she did mind, though she had no wish to meet 
Mrs. Hammond. 

She followed Miss Hammond into the drawing-room 
and talked continually, nervous of Miss Hammond’s con¬ 
centrated, immovable gaze and shining, half-closed eyes. 

It became dark, but Miss Hammond refused to turn 
on the light. Sheila went to the piano. Miss Hammond 
followed her. Sheila began to play. Miss Hammond 
caught hold of her wrists and kissed them. Then she 
kissed her eyes and throat furiously, without stopping. 
Sheila struggled to get free but couldn’t resist Miss Ham¬ 
mond’s strong arms, which only loosened themselves when 



DIFFERENT GODS 


90 

Sheila, in an endeavour to escape the woman’s reaching 
lips, gave a great shudder of distaste. She leapt away, 
feeling Miss Hammond’s grasp relax and stood still, 
trembling. Then she ran out of the room and out of 
the house. 

When Grandmother saw her come back without her 
hat and coat, breathless, white, and dishevelled, she cried 
out with fear: 

‘‘What’s the matter? What has happened?” 

“Miss Hammond—she was kissing me.” 

“Is that allV^ 

“All!” 

“You have taken a great dislike to this poor woman.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, shuddering. 

“And she is so kind to you.” 

“Very kind.” 

Grandmother went on speaking scoldingly, but she 
brought brandy and hot water and made her sip it. Then 
she put her to bed, looking at her in a puzzled way, and 
said practically, “What about your hat and coat?” 

“She might send them.” 

“If she doesn’t?” 

“They can stay there.” 

“They are quite new.” 

“I know. Good night.” 

When Grandmother went Sheila tucked the clothes 
round herself and closed her eyes, sighing heavily. She 
pictured Miss Hammond mute and agitated, standing, 
flung back, in the dark drawing-room. She must have lis¬ 
tened to her running out. She must have hated that, and 
yet Sheila knew she could have acted in no other way. 

Was she really cruel and hard-hearted? Was she get¬ 
ting impatient of other people now that she knew Dr. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


91 


Strongitharm so well? He had been away a week, but 
she would be seeing him the next day. She wouldn’t be 
able to tell him about Miss Hammond in case he thought 
her heartless. She couldn’t tell God because He, being 
Love, would be vexed with her for repulsing it. 

So she told Beatrice, arranging a place for her to rest 
in within her arms. For Beatrice would not judge her or 
condemn her, she would only love her, without ques¬ 
tioning. 


CHAPTER XIV 


T he next morning there was a letter for Sheila 
from Miss Hammond. She must have brought 
it herself and pushed it into the letter box, 
for she couldn’t have had time to send it by post. 

Sheila read it over her breakfast, her face troubled. 
She hated to think of Miss Hammond’s suffering, and yet 
she knew she could not relieve it, since the only way of 
doing that would be by responding to her terrible em¬ 
braces. She read the letter through again. 

“Beloved One, 

^‘Are you angry with me? DonH he angry with me, 
I love you so. Let me see you again. Life without 
you is only Death. I will wait for you at the golf-house 
to-morrow {Thursday) morning. It will be quite empty 
and we will be alone. I wonH vex you again. 

^^Your sorrowing^ 

“Janet Hammond.” 

Grandmother said, “Is it from that woman?” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, pushing the letter over to her. 
Grandmother read it, pondered over it awhile, her eyes 
puzzled, and then said slowly, “If she doesn’t send them, 
I will go for your hat and coat.” 

“She’s so funny,” said Sheila, mumbling her words with 
embarrassment. 

“I think she is mad.” 

“She’s quite sensible and practical.” 

92 


DIFFERENT GODS 


93 


“She seems to have a man’s spirit in a woman’s body.” 

It rained heavily on Thursday morning, and though it 
made Sheila miserable to think of Miss Hammond, she 
couldn’t go to meet her. ^ 

She felt glad Grandmother didn’t want her to go. 
She had been wondering if she herself were to blame, 
and if her distaste for Miss Hammond were caused by 
her growing craving to be by herself and think of Dr. 
Strongitharm. 

He had said: “Will I ever be good enough to be 
Beatrice’s father?” 

How shy that made her feel, though he had spoken so 
simply and so earnestly! Beatrice’s father had always 
been so vague. He had been more a collection of quali¬ 
ties than a man of flesh and blood. She knew more of 
what he was not, than of what he was. He was a perfect 
being, like Beatrice, but, like her, invisible and mute. 

Dr. Strongitharm was big and actual, and his face 
had a vivid look. And his voice was deep and strong 
though very soft sometimes. How strange that he should 
think of being Beatrice’s father. How heart-stirring! 

She met him towards evening at the golf links, but 
drew him away quickly, terrified lest Miss Hammond 
should be there. They walked again to the tree-bordered 
lane. 

His eyes were deep and bright with pleasure at meet¬ 
ing her. His cheeks were warm. 

She was thinking of what he said, and wished that she 
could creep inside her own heart and hide there; not that 
she feared Dr. Strongitharm, but that he was drawing 
her into enchantment and she didn’t feel quite ready. 
The mere thought made her breathe unsteadily, for to 
dream of enchantment is a calmer thing than to enter it. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


94 

She had pictured a beautiful, tranquil child, and a knight 
with a shining sword, waiting for her sweetly in a distant, 
shadowy region. 

Dr. Strongitharm sought her out and there was nothing 
of the blue and gold knight about him, but, though he 
wore a rather shabby navy blue suit, he seemed to carry 
a sword. And he walked with a slow, strong swing like 
a man who is too steady to hurry nervously, and too vital 
to saunter along. 

He asked her how her golf was getting along the week 
he had been away. 

She said, ^‘Very well,” and stopped suddenly. 

“Who have you been playing with?” 

“Miss Hammond.” 

“Jolly fine player. How good of her to have taken 
you round.” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you playing with her again? ” 

“No. I’m thinking of giving up golf.” 

“Giving it up?” 

“Yes.” She paused, then spoke hastily: “I don’t get 
on very well with Miss Hammond.” 

“But really,” he said in a disappointed tone, “you can 
disagree with Miss Hammond without quarrelling or giv¬ 
ing up the game.” 

“I don’t like it.” 

“Oh, that settles it, then.” 

They walked on in silence. She was troubled, think¬ 
ing he misunderstood her, but she was unable to explain 
matters fully. 

She asked him how he had spent his week away. 

“Reading poetry, for one thing,” he said. “I haven’t 


DIFFERENT GODS 


.95 

read any for years, but I wanted to, and in each poem I 
saw you.” 

Her heart leapt gladly and fearfully. She said: ‘‘IVe 
been thinking about you—so much.” 

“Have you? IVe looked at women and girls—some 
of them very handsome, most of them very nice, and I 
thought. ^No. Not one of them can hold a candle to 
my quaint little girl.’ ” 

“Am I a quaint little girl?” 

He took up her hand that hung by her side, and said, 
smiling gently, “Why do you say that sadly?” 

“Because it makes me feel lonely, being quaint.” 

“You won’t feel lonely any more.” 

He raised her hand up and gazed at its smallness com¬ 
passionately, then he looked at her face and regarded it 
with an earnestness that passed into serious smiling. 

“I’d like to tuck you under my arm and put my coat 
round you and never leave go of you-” 

She took hold of his hand, not smiling at all, and laid 
it against her cheek. 

Suddenly he loosened his hand and put both arms round 
her shoulders. He drew her nearer to him, while they 
both regarded each other with still, awed eyes, and then 
he kissed her once, very softly, on the lips. 

She smiled at that, but faintly and with great quiet¬ 
ness. Yes, he was her knight. She recognized him well. 
He was her knight. He was Beatrice’s father. For her 
heart did not run away at his kiss, and her body did not 
shrink as she had imagined it doing at other men’s kisses. 
And she had no wish to move arrogantly and imperiously 
and to speak with proud regret. She only wanted to rest 
her head where his heart beat, and feel triumphantly, 
gratefully conscious of his presence. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


96 

He kissed her again and she smiled, her eyes dim. The 
strength of him made his reverent touching of her the 
more apparent. She looked at his strong brown hands 
and man’s fingers and, unaccountably, they made her feel 
maternal. She felt at once submissive and controlling, 
protective and protected. She had placed her burdens 
at his feet, but she would take his from his shoulders 
and make them her own. His troubles would be her 
troubles, and his griefs her griefs. 

He said, “I love you, Sheila.” 

She replied, “I love you.” But she didn’t voice the 
words, she only framed them. 

When it was time for her to go, she said, her eyes en¬ 
treating him, ‘‘Good-bye.” He said, “Good-bye,” answer¬ 
ing her entreaty by his voice which expressed the fear 
that he, too, endured of parting though it were only for 
a night. 

She turned to go, but he drew her back to kiss her 
again, and hold her close. She received his kisses on 
her lips, and her heart spread in her breast as though it 
were a bird putting out wings. 

Before she got into bed that night she knelt down and 
smiled at God with love, telling Him how good He was, 
and thanking Him passionately. She asked Him to be 
kind to Dr. Strongitharm and take care of him, and she 
wished she could run up to Heaven, just for a minute or 
two, to sit on God’s knee and put her arms round Him, 
and thank Him, and thank Him. 

She got into bed and sighed with happiness. Then 
suddenly she thought of Miss Cooper, and her heart 
cowered. Poor creature! She was dying, and Dr. 
Strongitharm didn’t love her, a double calamity too ter¬ 
rible to dwell upon. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


97 


He was engaged to Miss Cooper. Perhaps she wore his 
ring on her finger. Her heart contracted at that. She 
told herself that she had life, and his love, and that she 
should be glad of any little pleasure a dying girl had. 
But it troubled her, this night of all nights, that his ring 
should be on another girl’s finger. 

He hadn’t mentioned her. He had said, ‘There is an 
obstacle, but it isn’t insuperable.” 

The obstacle was Miss Cooper. How cruel, how cruel 
it sounded! And it wasn’t insuperable, because Miss 
Cooper was going to die. . . . 

She shivered, thinking that. She would only get full 
happiness by a death. She wanted happiness, but she 
didn’t want Miss Cooper to die. For a moment she felt 
afraid of God. How could He bear to give her such great 
joy with one hand and such a fear and shame with the 
other. For there was something shameful in waiting for 
a girl to die. 

She said that, next day, to Peg. 

Peg said, “You aren’t making her die. Your wanting 
her to die-” 

“No!” Sheila cried out. 

“Your hoping that-” 

“No!” cried Sheila again. 

“Your wanting to be happy isn’t going to make her die 
sooner than she would otherwise.” 

“No, but--—” 

“It’s a rotten situation, but it can’t be helped. She 
was dying before he met her. She got him against his 
will- 

“Did she?” 

“That’s common knowledge. Only a man who was al¬ 
ready married, or in love, or who was brutal or quite 






DIFFERENT GODS 


98 

selfish could possibly have escaped. You’ve nothing to 
be ashamed of. What you’ve to do is to keep things dark 
till she’s dead.” 

“How hateful!” said Sheila, shuddering. 

“But that’s how it is,” said Peg, surprised. “What 
does he say about it?” 

“He hasn’t mentioned it,” said Sheila, flushing. 

“There’s so much kindness in him,” said Peg ruminat- 
ingly. “Just like this God-damn world. The sort of man 
that doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but his own 
wouldn’t have been put into such a position, but Strongith- 
arm will writhe at the idea of giving that girl pain.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, loathing herself for a sudden spasm 
of jealousy. 

“So that’s why you must take my advice. Keep things 
dark for the present. Then when—you know—every¬ 
thing in the garden will be lovely.” Her mouth twisted. 
“There’s no reason why the two of us should miss love.” 

“How’s baby?” asked Sheila quickly. 

“Growing more like Augustus every day. Funny how 
you can have a child in your own body all those months, 
and when he’s born he isn’t yours.” 

“He’s a dear little thing,” said Sheila lamely. 

“He isn’t mine. I can’t love him. I’ll always be 
good to him, but I can’t love him.” 


CHAPTER XV 


T he next time Sheila met Strongitharm she 
hoped, yet dreaded, he would talk of Miss 
Cooper. They met quietly, each remembering 
the last parting, and both overcome by the realization of 
their vehement love. 

He said, “Good evening, little Sheila.” 

She said, “Good evening—Philip,” and smiled. “I’m 
glad your name is Philip.” 

“Are you? I’m glad you’re you. I didn’t expect to 
come across a girl who’d be so much my own.” 

“But anybody who married you would be your own,” 
she said, waiting for his denial. 

“No, not necessarily. She’d be mine legally—but what 
are we talking about? I only know that this funny little 
girl here with a funny little heart that resembles nobody 
else’s, is mine.” He stretched himself as though he were 
waking out of sleep. 

“And is it true that this big man—isn’t it dreadful 
that in these advanced days, I can’t get out of my system 
a sort of veneration for manhood—is it really true that 
this big man is all mine?” 

“All yours, Sheila. I never expected to give so much 
of myself to any woman or to be so much in her power.” 
“Didn’t you?” 

“There, how you’re looking at me I Like—like-” 

“Like-” 

“I’m not quick with words, like you. But don’t look 
at me like that yet-” 


99 





100 


DIFFERENT GODS 


I looking at you wrong?” 

^‘Dear little one, no. You look like a young mother 
beholding her child for the first time.” 

“I am beholding him. I behold him in you.” 

“Him?” 

“Yes. It isn’t Beatrice any more.” 

“Poor little Beatrice!” 

“But she can come second.” 

“So she can.” A tender expression illuminated his 
face, then suddenly died. “Dearest, I’ve something to 
say to you.” 

Her throat went dry. 

“Yes, say it.” 

He cleared his throat several times, and her smile be¬ 
came maternal. He stretched out one hand, then, awk¬ 
wardly, scratched the back of his head. 

“Isn’t it beautiful—that—that light in the sky?” 

“Where? It’s all dimness.” 

“Over there.” 

“Oh yes,” she said, not seeing it. 

“How’s your golf getting on?” 

“I haven’t been up lately.” 

“And I’m too busy to take you round. What will be¬ 
come of your handicap?” 

“Which I haven’t got.” 

“Have any of the men you know been playing with 
Miss Hammond?” 

“Yes. She’s up there a great deal.” 

“Where’s our particular little spot, where we sat that 
time? There’s a tree there. I remember it. I call it 
Sheila. You aren’t the only one who can give names to 
trees 1 ” 

“Do you really call it Sheila?” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


lOI 


She laid her head against his arm. 

‘There are people there!” He spoke in mock tragedy. 
“How dare you take that tree. Sheila is mine.” 

“Let’s find another one.” 

“What a sensible little girl I’ve got!” 

“Let’s find a pretty one.” 

“Sheila’s a pretty one.” 

“Let’s find one littler than that, and cosier.” 

“Look at that one.” 

“0-o-oh! A great big straggling thing like an acrobat 
in a muddle.” 

“This.” 

“H’m—it’s just an ordinary one.” 

“A sort of Mrs. Brown.” 

“Yes. Look, there’s one.” 

“Which?” 

“That little, little, cuddly one.” 

“Let’s make for it.” They reached it breathless. 
There was a little wooden seat beneath its branches, and 
a stretch of barren ground either side. 

“Yes, it’s a sweet little tree. You must really give a 
name to it.” 

“I’ve given it one.” 

“What?” 

“Roger.” 

“Why Roger?” 

“He’s Beatrice’s brother.” 

“Dearest-” He paused, inarticulate. “I can’t 

speak—I can’t say things—but I love you so. I never 
expected to feel anything like this. I love you so.” He 
took her in his arms with a great comprehensive move¬ 
ment, seeming to surround her with his body. 

“I wish I could creep inside your heart-” 




DIFFERENT GODS 


102 

‘‘You’re there already.” 

“And curl myself up and never have to leave you any 
more.” ^ 

“You won’t have to leave me.” 

“Won’t I? Will it be very long?” 

“I’ll—I’ll arrange that this week.” 

Sheila knew what he meant. With her eyes closed and 
her hands clasped by Philip she asked God to help Miss 
Cooper and be good to her, and begged Him not to think 
her horrid for feeling glad that Philip was going to break 
off the engagement. 

She went to see Peg the following evening. 

Peg avoided her happy smile. 

“Sheila,” she said, “I’ve something to tell you. Strong- 
itharm’s been here.” 

“Here!” 

“Yes. Shall we have some tea? I always want tea, 
when—^when—^yes, we’ll have some tea.” She rang the 
bell. “He came here this morning.” Peg spoke rapidly. 
“After he left you last night he went to see Fanny Cooper. 
He said he couldn’t have endured the night through other¬ 
wise. He was going to tell her about you and ask her 
to release him from the engagement. He said he walked 
miles and miles before he went to the house. He had to 
think so hard. He said it seemed brutal, to be harsh with 
a dying girl, and yet he felt it was an ugly thing to wait 
till she was dead before acknowledging you. And he said 
it would make you miserable for ever to think you had 
had to wait for her death.” 

“I said to him then, ‘But surely she’d have the sense 
to know she didn’t cause her death?’ ” 

“ ‘She’d worry about it,’ he said. I know that. Of 
course he was right—^you would. Well, he went to 


DIFFERENT GODS 


103 

Cooper’s. Sheila, she was terribly ill. Her old doctor 
was there, and another one. They both said there’s no 
hope. She can’t get over this bout, and—Sheila, she 
wants him to marry her before she dies.” 

Tea was brought in. Peg poured it out. Sheila listened 
to the tinkling of the cups and saucers, thinking, ‘‘What 
a familiar sound! Where have I heard it before?” 

“Sheila.” Peg touched her arm and held it. “Drink 
some tea.” 

“What’s going to happen then!” Sheila heard herself 
asking. “Why did he come to you?” 

“He said he couldn’t talk matters over with you. He 
tried, and tried, but never could. He said you seemed 
separate from unpleasantness. That’s why he came. 
He said he knew you and I were good friends, and he 
decided all in a minute to come to me.” 

“Where was Augustus?” asked Sheila, not knowing 
why she asked such a question. 

“In church superintending something or other.” 

“What’s going to happen then?” 

“He said he’s like a man torn in two. He looked aw¬ 
fully white, Sheila. He said it’s terrible to listen to that 
girl begging and begging him to marry her, and yet to 
marry her and think of you and your—^he stopped then. 
I don’t know what he was going to say. Afterwards he 
said ‘conversation,’ but I don’t suppose he meant that.” 

“Yes, that is what he meant.” 

“What do you say?” 

“I think he ought to marry her.” 

“Yes. I said that, too. I said that I knew she’d come 
like a ghost between you if she died with this craving 
and it was never fulfilled. Isn’t it funny that one so 
near death should think so much of such things? It 


104 


DIFFERENT GODS 


seems that years ago, when this illness first started, she 
used to say, ‘Will it mean I’ll be an old maid? I won’t 
die an old maid. I’m going to be married, like other girls. 
I’d hate to lie in my grave without a wedding ring on my 
finger.’ ” She paused. “That’s all it will mean, Sheila, 
having a ring on her finger.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, staring at the wall. 

“He wants to see you for half an hour.” 

“Half an hour?” 

“He has to be in constant attendance. He wants your 
permission first.” 

“My permission?” 

“When are you going to see him? He’s at Cooper’s. 
I’m to ring him up. What time shall I say?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Shall I say two o’clock? Where do you usually 
meet?” 

“If it’s only for half an hour let it be somewhere 
nearer.” 

“Where then?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t think.” 

“Augustus would be bothering around or I’d ask you 
to come here. What about the tram terminus?” 

“Yes.” 

They met, giving each other a swift, mournful, shamed 
look. 

He said, “I couldn’t tell you, Sheila—all the details— 
you understand that, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” At the sight of him half her pain went. He 
was suffering. Her heart went out to him. She wanted 
to pillow his head against her breast as though he were a 


DIFFERENT GODS 


105 

child and she his mother. He looked stern, grim and 
bewildered. 

“Marry her,’^ she said, surprised she could say the 
words so calmly. “Marry her. It is only humane. You 
couldn’t do less. Each time you think, ‘No, I won’t 
marry her,’ think then, ‘And if I don’t, what then?’ 
That is what I’ve been doing, picturing the situation if 
you don’t. It would be impossible. We’d never forgive 
ourselves or each other. We’d never be happy.” 

“No. It’ll be to-day then, Sheila.” 

“To-day?” Her breath stopped short, but she man¬ 
aged to smile at him reassuringly. 

“My God! What a farce it will be! She keeps say¬ 
ing, ‘I know you’ve never loved me.’ And yet she wants 
to marry me. If you didn’t love me, Sheila, and I loved 
you as I love you now, I wouldn’t want to marry you.” 

“People differ so,” said Sheila comfortingly. “Go 
through with it. Don’t worry about me. Remember you 
are obeying me—and—and—pleasing me in marrying 
her.” 

“Don’t.” 

“Good-bye. Don’t see me till—till it’s over. Peg says 
that will be in a few days at the outside.” 

“Yes. Harper the specialist has seen her. But how 
beastly—as though we are waiting for her death!” 

Sheila tried to say No. As she went home, she strove 
to drive out from her thoughts, “Why couldn’t God have 
let this happiness come to me entire and complete?” 
Then she reproached herself saying, “You are rich and 
favoured. You have life and love. Fanny Cooper has 
neither. The sky is blue all over, and the wind like 
spring, and she is going to die.” 





















PART II 




\ 



CHAPTER XVI 


r I "She next few days were an agony. She couldn’t 
I settle to anything. She couldn’t read, she 
M couldn’t sew. She couldn’t go to Peg in case 
she discussed the situation. Sheila was beyond speech. 
Even her thoughts were wordless. 

Grandmother watched her and thought she was going 
to be ill. Sheila declared she was quite well, and then 
said suddenly, ‘‘I longed once to be grown-up.” 

^‘Yes, one does. Everything we long for comes too 
late, or else we don’t want it when it comes. I used to 
long for a blue silk dress. It came from the dressmaker 
the day my mother died, and I wept when I looked at it, 
though I had pictured myself smiling when it came. I 
wore it at the funeral, dyed black.” 

Sheila fidgeted in her chair, feeling unbearably op¬ 
pressed. She gazed at Grandmother as she had often 
gazed at her since babyhood—^with fear, bewilderment, 
suspicion, and admiration. Sometimes the wrinkles in 
her face formed letters, and these she tried to fit into 
words. 

“Why are you sitting idle?” asked Grandmother, not 
looking up. “We want lace for the new pillow-slips.” 

“I’m going to play golf.” 

Grandmother’s knitting needles clicked their contempt 
and disappointment. 

“Women don’t want their muscles hardened.” 

“Why not?” demanded Sheila. “Strength is always 
a good thing.” 

J09 



110 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“What have women to do with strength? God made 
their bodies weak. Why do they struggle against God?” 

“How absurd 1” 

“You are so old and wise.” 

“I don’t see why women should cultivate unhealthi¬ 
ness.” 

“Who said that they should? Being muscular isn’t 
being healthy.” 

“It often is.” 

“Not with women.” 

“I’m going out.” 

“Mind you don’t look directly into the eyes of any 
man.” 

Sheila, used to this injunction, went out, walking rest¬ 
lessly. The air had the beautiful dimness that warm 
rain leaves behind. The sky was veiled. 

The little tree, Beatrice, drew back as she approached, 
Sheila did not look at it. Further down, the homely 
beeches moved like bustling kindly women, and clumsily 
leant forward to say, “Poor Sheila! Poor Sheila!” 

She smiled faintly and went to the shore, but it didn’t 
give her the old delight. Philip was by her side, but he 
couldn’t be touched or leant upon. He was by her side 
torturing her with the lack of him. 

His ring was on Fanny Cooper’s finger. She was his 
wife now. He was her husband. But in a few days she 
would die, triumphant in her grave, and then he would 
come to her. He could come to her and they would 
walk through life together. They would enter enchant¬ 
ment. But why couldn’t her happiness have come to her 
gloriously, full, and joyous, and bright? Her wedding 
would be heralded by a funeral. 

She sat down and stared at the river which was at 


DIFFERENT GODS 


III 


very low tide. She rested her chin on her hands and leant 
her elbows on her knees. She closed her eyes, weary 
enough for sleep, and opened them to find the bright blue 
vacant eyes of the very old man staring into hers. 

She recognized him at once though he looked older 
than ever. 

She said, ^^Hallo!’’ 

He bent farther forward. 

‘‘I remember you. You told me about Kathleen.” 

‘‘She was hasty. She didn’t mean it. She left the 
man she married to see if I was really going. She only 
had a skirt over her shimmy and her breast was so 
soft-” 

He paused, frowning stupidly. 

“She was hasty-” 

“Yes?” said Sheila. 

“I forget now, but she was hasty. She didn’t mean it. 
Is it late? I mustn’t be home late. My daughter’s 
daughter gets very wild when I come in late. ‘The table’s 
never clear.’ That’s what she says. ‘The table’s never 
clear.’ My daughter’s daughter has a loud voice. She’s 
older than Kathie. Kathie’s only eighteen.” 

“It’s four o’clock.” 

“Oh dear. Oh dear.” He hurried off without looking 
backwards, and Sheila watched him disappear. She 
would have liked to talk to him, but his eyes chilled her 
with their emptiness and fright. 

Poor old man! And Kathie, long dead perhaps! 
Once she had wished to be some one’s Kathie. But 
that was when she was a child. Now she wished to be 
Philip’s wife. Life had become utterly simple. It held 
only one desire and that was going to be fulfilled—soon. 
How wicked of her to have grumbled at this short un,** 




II2 


DIFFERENT GODS 


pleasantness. Supposing she were a Kathie, parted from 
her man for ever! She would only be parted for a little 
while, and then—her heart surged, drowning her thoughts. 
She got up restlessly and walked towards home, but she 
couldn’t face Grandmother. She went to Peg. Peg 
looked strange and white. She said to Sheila in a husky 
voice, “You got my note then?” 

“No,” said Sheila. “Why?” 

Peg’s eyes grew dark. Her lips were hopelessly parted. 
Her movements were quick, capable, furious. She said: 
“Sheila, I’ve got to tell you. She’s taken a turn for the 
better. The doctors can’t understand it, though such a 
thing hasn’t been unheard of before. They can’t under¬ 
stand it. She isn’t better in the way people are better 
who recover from the measles or something like that. 
Onedung’s nearly gone, but she’s recovering, and—and— 
may live for years. . . . The priest gave her extreme 
unction immediately after the wedding ceremony. She 

didn’t pay much attention, but stared at her ring-” 

Peg caught herself up and looked for the first time at 
Sheila’s face which was terrified, baffled, and grey. 
“What’s wrong with our family?” said Peg. “What have 
we done? Thousands of people with her symptoms and 
at her age die as a matter of course. And she may live 
for years.” Tears rained down her face, “Sheila-” 

Sheila didn’t reply. Her eyes looked insane. Her 
fingers moved foolishly up and down. 

“Sheila—don’t—it can’t be helped. It’s my fault. 
I advised you.” 

Sheila stood up. 

“Don’t go, Sheila. Stay and have something to eat.” 

Sheila only stared back at Peg, pushing her away with 
terrified, fumbling hands. 




DIFFERENT GODS 


113 

^^Sheila-” 

In terror Peg watched her go, then went back to the 
room and rocked herself backwards and forwards in her 
chair. 

Sally came in. ‘The master says- 

“Let him go to hell.” 

“I’ll see to it then,” said Sally calmly. 

Sheila went out into the street. The noise of the 
traffic was quieter than the shouting sound in her head. 
Her mind was screaming, “I asked God that an insuper¬ 
able obstacle would come between us. I was a child, 
that’s why I asked it. I was a child and didn’t under¬ 
stand. But He took advantage of my ignorance and 
listened to my prayers, sniggering behind His hand. 
That’s God for you! I asked Him to be kind to Miss 
Cooper-” 

She sped past the house and went to the shore again. 
She hated it, but it was the only endurable place the 
world contained. She hated it, for it contained the 
memories of her childhood and joyful adolescence. But 
it was wide and spacious and the few people there were 
solitary and preoccupied. 

She walked by the water’s edge and in the distance 
saw a man lying on the sand. Even in her rage and 
sorrow the thought came, “How foolish of him to lie on 
the damp. He’ll catch cold.” She approached him with¬ 
out hurry, and saw as she neared him that it was the old 
man. She bent over him. He was asleep. He would 
be late after all, and his daughter’s daughter would scold 
him. How old he was, how white, how frail! He had 
once been strong, and vital, and passionate, now he was 
like an ancient child. He had neither the dignity of 
age nor the appeal of childhood. He aroused neither 





DIFFERENT GODS 


114 

respect nor tenderness, only an overwhelming pity. His 
daughter’s daughter would scold him, and he was afraid 
of her. She touched him gently to waken him and then 
drew back sharply. She had never encountered such 
coldness before, but she knew it was the coldness of 
Death. 

She stared at him enthralled. Where had he gone to? 
This wasn’t he. No breath came through his nostrils, 
his chest didn’t rise and fall, his heart didn’t beat. Where 
had he gone to? Would he find Kathleen? Would she 
be a spirit? as so many people believed. Would he be a 
spirit too? How he would hate it if he were! How 
Kathleen would hate it too! He wouldn’t want her to 
be perfect and radiant, without all the lovely weaknesses 
of the body. He would want her with a skirt over her 
shimmy and her breast so soft- 

Once she had said she would rather be some man’s 
Kathleen than his wife. She had asked God to send an 
insuperable obstacle to part her for ever from her lover. 
He had sent one, sniggering behind His hand. 

Had the old man ever felt as she was feeling now, so 
fierce, so hungry, so furious, so lost? Yes, he had, and 
now he was lying dead on the sand, looking as though 
nothing could matter any more. Would she ever look 
like that? 

Fear took hold of her. 

She looked at the old man again, and smiled at him, 
and said, “He’s gone from me. Neither of us was hasty. 
We only tried to be good. He’s gone from me.” 

He only replied with his look that said, “Nothing 
matters any more.” But only the shell of him said that. 
The old man himself wasn’t there. 

She crept home. Peg was there persistently talking to 



DIFFERENT GODS 


115 

hide her agitation from Grandmother. She looked re¬ 
lieved when Sheila came in, and talked still more. 

Grandmother said with a mixture of vexation and 
anxiety, Where have you been? I wish you wouldn’t 
go walking by yourself like this. Where have you been?” 

^‘With a dead man on the shore.” 

Grandmother made an exclamation. Peg looked afraid, 
dead man!” said Grandmother. “What did you 

do?” 

“I did nothing, but came away.” 

“That was wise of you. I shouldn’t like you to be 
mixed up with the newspapers. That was very wise of 
you.” 

“I didn’t think of being wise. What else could I 
have done?” 

“Some would have gone to the police-” 

“I never thought of doing that.” 

“I want to know if you will spend your holidays with 
us,” said Peg; “we’re going to Westlake.” 

“I want to go to Castbn,” said Sheila. 

“Alone?” said Grandmother. 

“I was alone before. I could stay with Mrs. Turton.” 

Grandmother was going to protest, but Peg gave her 
a warning look. They both stared fearfully at Sheila, 
whose eyes were terrified and empty, and her mouth was 
twisted as though she was suffering a pain that was be¬ 
yond bearing. 

“Do you remember about the Lord God losing His 
way?” she asked. 

“What do you mean?” said Peg. 

“I remember it,” said Sheila, and went upstmrs to her 
bedroom. 



CHAPTER XVII 


M rs. TURTON welcomed her cordially, say¬ 
ing repeatedly, ‘‘Dear me! How you have 
grown! But what am I saying? You’re 
five years older, aren’t you?” She took her to the little 
bedroom which was still blue and as fresh as ever, poured 
out water for her, and handed her a towel. Then she 
bustled out of the room saying, “I’ll just make you a cup 
of tea. You like tea, don’t you?” 

Sheila stared out of the window. Old Bob’s tombstone 
was still there, but she wasn’t afraid any more of the old 
man peeping over. She wasn’t afraid of anything except 
the thought of the future. 

She had hoped to find some sort of peace in her sur¬ 
roundings, but the afternoon was long. Mrs. Turton’s 
peering eyes were too keen, and her incessant chatter 
was almost unbearable. 

“How is Edie?” asked Sheila at length. 

“She’s housekeeper to a gentleman who’s built a house 
ten miles away.” 

“Is she quite—^well?” She didn’t like to say “happy.” 
“Oh, Edie’s quite well. She was always quiet, you 
know, and pale, and soft in her ways. The child’s the 
dead spit of his father. You never saw such a likeness.” 
“They aren’t married, then?” 

“No, no, they’re not married. Willie’s after a lady, 
but he never meets one. All the girls round here would 

ii6 


I 



DIFFERENT GODS 


117 

have him, but Willie won’t marry them. He’ll make love 
to them but he won’t marry them.” 

“How’s Mrs. Caine?” 

“She’s in bed with another baby.”- 

“Another?” 

“This is the third since you were here last. Her man’s 
doing well in the local preaching. The way he bangs on 
the Bible and the way he shouts out the scripture I You 
could hear him miles away.” 

“I’ll go for a little walk while it’s light.” 

“Your eyes aren’t as bright as they used to be, and 
your feet drag-” 

“I haven’t been well.” 

Mrs. Turton peered at her, but said nothing. 

Sheila went out into the lane, remembering the time 
she had first walked along it, her heart dancing. Now 
her heart lay still and cold. It was like a stone in her 
breast. But her brain was red-hot. 

Philip was gone for ever. She couldn’t believe it, 
though* her reason said it was true. Philip was hers; He 
belonged to her. He couldn’t be gone for ever. Her 
spirit was twined round his. She felt like an unborn 
child wrenched from its mother. Existence without him 
would be impossible, and he—he had rejoiced in her so. 
He had so loved loving her. She visualized him, tortured. 

She had imagined that distance would alleviate her 
suffering. But you cannot run away from grief. 

Philip was married. 

Her mouth went dry and she suddenly stumbled. 

Philip was married to Fanny Cooper, and she was get¬ 
ting better. She wasn’t Fanny Cooper any more. She 
was Fanny Strongitharm. She had Philip’s name, she 
wore his ring, she would one day live in his house. Per- 



ii8 


DIFFERENT GODS 


haps—but no, that thought was madness. Even God 
wouldn^t let things like that happen. He wouldn’t let 
Fanny have Philip’s children. 

Yet people need not love each other perfectly in order 
to have children. That was a fact she had learned five 
years ago, but it still had the power to stupefy her. 
Roger and Beatrice passed like ghosts before her. She 
stretched out her hands, and her eyes went blind for a 
moment. 

She turned the bend of the road, walking at uncon¬ 
trollable speed. 

A man was walking towards her in the far distance. 
He reminded her of Philip. All men of similar size re¬ 
minded her of him. Coming up to Caston some one had 
smoked the tobacco he used and her head had dropped 
forward. 

The man was walking rapidly. His likeness to Philip 
was extraordinary, though his face was as yet indistin¬ 
guishable. The sight of him increased her agony. 

He began to run, and she still walked with the extreme 
speed of agitation. They were like two people rushing 
together. His feet threw up the dust of the white road 
in swiftly vanishing clouds. He called out her name. 

He was Philip! She kept trying to realize it even 
when she was surrounded by his arms, leaning, half-faint, 
against him. He was Philip I 

“Peg told me where you were,” he said. “I followed 
immediately.” 

She replied with terrible, dry sobs. 

“Oh don’t! ” he said, sharp with distress. “Don’t, don’t 
for God’s sake.” 

“God’s sake! God doesn’t care.” 

“Sheila, it’s terrible, but it’s not going to part us. I 


DIFFERENT GODS 


119 

haven’t slept, wondering what we’ll do. I hate discussing 
these things with you. I’d like to bar you with my body 
from all unpleasantness-” 

“Tell me. Tell me all you think and feel. I’m not a 
child any more-” 

“I thought first of divorce. But I’ve no money, my in¬ 
come depends on my profession. A divorced man isn’t 
wanted as medical adviser. So divorce is out of the 
question.” 

“We can see each other occasionally-” 

“Oh my God, what’s that?” 

“Better than nothing.” 

“And I was afraid, for a few bad moments, that you 
would want to give me up.” 

“I, too, have been afraid.” 

“Of what?” 

She didn’t answer. 

“Of what, dearest?” 

“Roger—Beatrice—and—of Fanny.” 

He jerked back his head swiftly. 

“Never be afraid any more. Do you want me to swear 
it, Sheila? Roger and Beatrice are yours. They will be 
no one else’s. They couldn’t be.” 

She clung to him. 

“Swear it.” 

“You doubt me, then?” 

“You hear such things of men and the strangeness of 
life. And I love you so—so greedily. I want you all. 
Not only your thoughts and your spirit-” 

He held her quietly but gazed at her, his eyes burning. 
“I’ll swear it then. Sheila, Fanny is legally my wife, but 
only legally.” 

“I am—glad—she’s better. I am. I am. I didn’t 






120 


DIFFERENT GODS 


want her to die- She deserves life. She struggled 

hard for it. We don’t want her to die-” 

^‘But we want each other.” 

“Oh, we do!” 

They walked together to the river and sat beside it. 
She was breathing quietly, and her brain felt cooler. She 
was exhausted but she didn’t know it, lost in the rapture 
his presence brought her. He was white and grim, and 
his mouth had a furious twist in it, but when he touched 
her he gave out tenderness, and his eyes were lovely with 
compassion. 

They did not speak for many moments, then he said 
quietly, “Sheila, the thought’s just occurred to me. I 
mustn’t meet you any more.” 

He felt her terrified movement. “Before, I only 
thought of my love of you. Now I am thinking of you, 
yourself. I can’t put you into such a position. I can’t 
have you meeting me when I can’t own you. I can’t treat 
you like that. You know how much I’d like to proclaim 
you to the world, but people-” 

“What do people matter? Don’t tell me we mustn’t 
meet any more.” 

“I must be fair to you.” 

“Is being cruel to me being fair?” 

“What am I to do? I want to protect you and keep 
you by my side, honour you, love you openly, and if I’m 
not careful I’d be the cause of your being exposed to 
gossip.” 

“What can they say if we play golf together? You 
play with other girls, and nobody says anything.” 

“You can’t hide love.” 

She sighed heavily and with mournful happiness. “Nq^ 
you cau^t hide love/’ 









DIFFERENT GODS 


I 2 I 


‘We’ll play once a week. But I must see you every 
day. I won’t speak to you. Just let me see you if it’s 
only passing swiftly in a ’bus. But I must see you to 
make the day bearable.” 

He leant his cheek upon hers and her breast swelled 
with maternal love. She placed her arm around him and 
rubbed her lips on his head and he murmured, “Meet me 
early to-morrow morning, so that we can have as much 
as possible of each other before I go.” 

“Before you go? You aren’t going to-morrow, are 
you?” 

“Yes. I have to.” 

She became dumb with the fear of his going, and 
racked with sudden jealousy. He might be going to the 
house where Fanny was, and she would look love at him. 
Peg had described her passionate, hungry eyes, and her 
poppy-red prettiness. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Why, if my eyes were closed, I’d see a shadow pass 
over your face.” 

“Nothing’s the matter.” 

“What’s the matter, dearest, beloved one, little wife?” 

“Ah! Am I your wife?” 

“You, and no other.” 

“It’s all right again.” 

“I thought it was that. Little dearest one, aren’t you 
going to trust me? I’d give my right hand if I could 
stay with you now and for ever. I want no other woman. 
I am sorry for Fanny, but I don’t love her.” He broke 
off to smile at her small weary face, which was illumined 
with love as with an actual light. 



122 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘I’ll have to go. Mrs. Turton will expect me. It’s 
getting late. Where are you staying?” 

“I haven’t arranged. When I heard you’d gone I just 
rushed off. I’ll have to walk back to the village and put 
up at the inn there.” 

“It’s a horrid place.” 

“Never mind.” 

“The village is a long way off.” 

“Dear, it’s near when I can get from it to you. When 
I thought a journey divided us-” 

“Don’t come too early in the morning. You’ll want 
your sleep.” 

“I’ll come as early as you want me. What about five? 
It will be light enough then.” 

“Yes, five.” 

“Good-bye, my own.” 

“Good-bye, good-bye.” 

“I love you.” 

“Good-bye, my dearest.” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


T he next morning was the colour of pearls. The 
countryside was so quiet that sounds which 
would have been lost in a city were clearly 
audible. They heard the barking of a dog that was too 
far off to be seen, and milking pails made a yawning 
clatter as they were placed upon the ground. 

Philip and Sheila were as happy as children. 

Only when the time came for them to part did sorrow 
sweep over them again. 

Sheila took hold of one of Philip’s hands in both of 
hers, and his face took on the expression it so often wore 
when in her company, one of profound compassion. His 
urgent desire to shield her from all grief and unpleasant¬ 
ness, his tenderness for her dependence on him, his de¬ 
light in her ways and in the little tricks of her face when 
she talked, all were greater and stronger even than his 
masculine love of her, and he was a virile man. She ap¬ 
pealed to every part of him, to every sense. He felt that 
she was like a quaint, strange, tender, beautiful little book 
that hadn’t a last page. He felt she was like a child, 
like a fairy, like a wave, like a cloud. But she was a 
woman, too, and the man in him cried out for her. 

The day was beautiful. From force of habit Sheila 
was going to say, ‘‘Thank you” to God for it, but she 
held herself in check. 

Philip crushed her to him after their last good-bye. 

Her body drooped in his arms, and she breathed help- 

123 


124 


DIFFERENT GODS 


lessly and with despair. His face took on a curious look, 
expressing by its restraint his suffering and bewilderment. 
He could never express himself easily in words. He 
wanted to cry out to Sheila not to torture him with her 
abandonment to grief when he couldn’t remain by her 
side and drive it away, but all he could say was, ^^Sheila, 
Sheila, don’t.” 

Sheila went back to Mrs. Turton, whose bright small 
eyes began to glow. For she scented a love affair, and 
her mind, that did not delight itself with reading or con¬ 
templation, had no other interest but love in all its forms 
but the highest, and that she had never encountered, and 
if she had encountered it she would never have recognized 
it or understood it. 

^‘What is it that’s troubling you?” she asked. ^‘You 
live with your grandmother, don’t you? Is she a strict 
woman?” 

“She’s very good to me.” 

Mrs. Turton put the kettle on. Sheila did not speak. 

“Willie’s got a new girl,” said Mrs. Turton, bright with 
the enjoyment of giving news, “Millie Oates.” 

“Why does any girl bother with him?” 

“He’s such a handsome lad.” 

“Doesn’t Millie Oates know about Edie and all the rest 
of them?” 

“Oh yes. Her sister’s minding one of his children.” 

“One of Willie’s children!” 

“Yes. Agnes is in service in Dugdale, so Maggie minds 
the child along with her own. Maggie, Agnes, and Millie 
are all sisters.” 

“I can’t understand it.” 

Mrs. Turton said nothing, but her puzzled frown said: 
“What can’t you understand?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


125 


THe next morning Sheila went out to find a comfortable 
and pretty place where she could sit and write to Philip. 
As she was spreading out the notepaper over a book a man 
passed by. He stopped, and Sheila looked up. It was 
Willie. He was handsome still, but less beautiful than 
before. He was broader and heavier. His extreme youth¬ 
fulness had diminished. 

He smiled at her, and she stared at him, imagining her 
face was impassive and expressionless, but he saw the 
horror on it and his smile died. 

He asked her humbly if she didn’t think it was a nice 
day. 

She said, ^Wes,” and got out her pen. 

He hesitated, then went away. 

When she got back home he was sitting in the kitchen 
with Mrs. Turton. He pretended to be unaware of 
Sheila’s presence, but his transparent skin glowed. Sheila 
went up to her bedroom and waited till he had gone. 
When she came down Mrs. Turton looked furtive. 

The next day they went together to the general shop, 
and on the way a girl passed them. She had straw-col¬ 
oured hair and pink cheeks, grey eyes, and a big red, 
sulky mouth. 

^That’s Millie Oates,” said Mrs. Turton, and smiled 
to herself. 

“She has a fierce face.” 

“Not always. The lads look hard at her when she 
smiles. She’s sulky now, but that’s because of Willie.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. But it’ll be Willie. I suppose he’s 
gone cool.” 

“What a horrible creature he is!” 

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Turton, “Willie isn’t a bad lad. 


126 


DIFFERENT GODS 


It’s the girls won’t leave him alone. He hasn’t had to go 
after one of them yet.” 

^‘Edie-” 

‘‘She didn’t go after him, but she was always ready 
waiting. Willie doesn’t want a farmer’s girl, he wants 
a lady.” 

“The ideal” 

“His father’s wife got ‘Honourable’ to her name.” 

“I’d like to see Edie some time.” 

“We’ll go on Thursday.” 

On Thursday, in preparation for what to her was a 
journey, Mrs. Turton dressed herself in her best, and 
consequently looked her worst. She determinedly pulled 
on her black kid gloves, and took her umbrella, though 
there was no sign of rain. She only took it out in fine 
weather, in case it should spoil. 

Edie had changed. She was still quiet and obedient, 
and gentle in her speech, but she was firmer, and her 
eyes looked straight. They no longer fluttered and ap¬ 
pealed. 

She greeted Sheila without enthusiasm, though Sheila 
was obviously glad to see her. 

“How’s your gentleman, Edie?” asked Mrs. Turton. 
“Still easy to get on with?” 

“He’s very pleasant,” said Edie. 

“And how’s the boy?” 

“Well.” 

When Sheila saw him she was struck by his remarkable 
likeness to Willie. 

Edie chided him for coming into the room noisily, and 
asked him if he had bought the soap. 

Sheila was surprised. She had, somehow, expected 
Edie to look at her child with the old sorrowful passion 



DIFFERENT GODS 


127 


. and to regard him as a tragedy. But she seemed just 
like other mothers, and kept reminding him to say 
“Please’^ and ‘Thank you.’’ 

Mrs. Turton removed her skirt before having tea, and 
asked Edie if she had been buying anything lately. 

Edie had, and she described her purchases with the 
earnestness of the housewife. Sheila was still more sur¬ 
prised. Ordinary things for her had lost their interest. 
Yet Edie, whose blow had been heavier than hers, for she 
had not only lost her lover but belief in him as well, was 
evidently interested in the varying qualities of materials 
and in all the necessities of a household. 

“In five years,” she said to herself, “will I be able to 
take life quietly? No, there will always be a flame within 
me, burning like this.” 

She was glad she was away from home though every¬ 
thing in Gaston seemed the same. She dreaded to see 
again the trees in the road and the long tree-bordered lane, 
the golf links, and all the familiar places that would re¬ 
mind her of her first happy days with Philip. She could 
more easily bear to think of him across the distance, than 
live near to him and be parted. And his letters came 
every morning. She could almost hear his voice in them, 
and see his face in every page. That was far better than 
seeing him actually in a street and having to pass him by. 

On Friday morning she went out to write to him. She 
sat down and took out his letter to read it again, and her 
need of him overwhelmed her. She covered her face in 
her hands, and wept without tears. 

A hand touched her gently on the arm. 

“What is it?” said Willie, stooping down, then kneeling 
beside her. He looked at her steadily and kindly, and 
she tried to realize that he was the Willie she had heard 


128 


DIFFERENT GODS 


about. It was difficult, for there was no meanness or 
cruelty in his face, and his touch upon her arm possessed 
the helpfulness of a friend. 

“Is anything the matter?” 

“No,” she said. 

His face dropped. 

“There is, but you don’t want to tell me. I wish you 
wouldn’t cry.” 

“I wasn’t crying.” 

“I don’t like you to be troubled. You’re troubled, 
aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is it a man?” 

She wouldn’t answer, but stood up quickly, frowning 
her resentment. He regarded her sadly, and she hated 
herself for not hating him. She hurried back home. 

Millie Oates was talking to Mrs. Turton. She glared 
at Sheila rudely. Mrs. Turton was happy, enjoying the 
situation. Sheila was unaware of it. 

When Millie had gone, Mrs. Turton said: “I’d like to 
hare Willie here for a bite of supper to-night.” 

“Would you?” 

“Would you be minding it?” 

“Why should I? This is your house.” 

“You minded the other time you were here, you see.” 

“I was younger then.” 

“Would you be having supper with us?” 

“I think I’d rather not. But,” she spoke without in¬ 
terest, “if it will save your laying supper twice I’ll have 
it with you.” 

“It would save me a bit of trouble,” said Mrs. Turton 
happily. 

At half-past seven Mrs. Turton laid the table for three, 
and then said in a dramatic voice, “If I haven’t forgot to 


different: gods 129' 

get any butter in for to-morrow I I’ll just run along to 
Mrs. Hepson’s. I won’t be a minute. Willie won’t be 
here till half-past eight or after.” 

When she had gone Sheila took out Philip’s letter and 
laid it against her cheek. The letter had less than usual 
of reassurance and strength, and hope. It cried out, 
want you so badlyj* and at the end was written, Shelia^ 
what have I done? Where have I placed you in consent¬ 
ing to that ceremony? My hands are tied. What can I 
do for you? I want to decide not to meet you againy 
for your sake, but to lose you after the glory of finding 
you would be such gross stupidity. But what can I do 
for you? I want to give you everything, and I can give 
you nothing. Vm thirty-five. Yet, each time people say, 
^Mrs. Strongitharm/ my heart twists and I could cry out, 
like a child, ^That^s SheiWs name.^ Dearest, one busy 
morning I planned to encourage you to marry another 
man should he be suitable and come your way. {My 
darling, dll men will come your way. How can they 
help it?) But when the day was over and I had a leisure 
hour, the evening spoke of you, and I cowered at imagin¬ 
ing you with another man. I couldnH bear it, Sheila. I 
would have to kill him. YouWe mine, 'all of you, your 
thoughts, your ways, your love, the whole of your sweet 
little body. I couldnH give you up to another man even 
though I know in a way I ought to, if he can give you 
all I am prevented from giving!^ 

She looked up as the latch of the door was lifted. 

Willie came in. She looked at the clock, surprised at 
his coming so early, and said, ^Will you sit down? Mrs. 
Turton has gone to the next farm for butter. She won’t 
be long.” 

But Mrs. Turton passed the next farm and went on 
to Mason’s, where she stayed the evening. 


i 


I 


CHAPTER XIX 

you’re going out with a new young man to- 
ZA night, Sally-” 

JL % “Why’m, how do you know?” 

“By the look of you. I’ll lend you a blouse. It’s cream 
and it’ll suit you. I wish you wouldn’t wear such bright 
pinks with your red cheeks.” 

“That’s why I wear them,” said Sally in surprise, “to 
match each other.” ‘ 

“But they don’t, they clash.” 

Peg went upstairs and came down with a cream crepe- 
de-Chine blouse, a lacy camisole and a string of beads, 
and handed them to Sally. 

Sally expressed her thanks and tried to hide her grate¬ 
ful shyness with a quick and sharply-spoken, “My word! 
I’m well in.” Peg, perfectly understanding her, said, 
“And here’s some scent.” 

Sally took it, humming, her cheeks on fire, went up¬ 
stairs, and dressed. When she came down again she went 
to Peg, first making sure that Augustus wasn’t about 
and said, “Look’m!” 

“You look splendid, Sally. Now enjoy yourself.” 

“You bet.” 

“You’re so handsome, Sally. What a white neck you’ve 
got. What do you put on it?” 

“Nothing’m. I wash it well with scrubbing soap.” 

“Scrubbing soap?” 

“Why, I don’t believe in them scenty tablets. They’re 
not ’ealthy. You’ve got your libr’y book, ’aven’t you, and 
your choc’lates and your cigarettes? I put them there 

ISO 



DIFFERENT GODS 


131 

on the little table. The other girls is settin’ in the kitchen. 
Their work’s all done nice and they’re crochetin’.” 

“They can stand on their heads for all I care. .What’s 
the new one like?” 

“Jinnie? Oh, she’s nice enough.” 

Peg grunted. She was always prejudiced against maids 
of Augustus’ choosing. Jinnie had once been with some 
friends of a family in his congregation. 

“The baby’s quiet, God bless ’im. ’E won’t wake. 
Now you’ve got your libr’y book?” 

“Yes. Anyway I won’t be lonely. Miss Sheila’s 
coming.” 

“Oh, is she back from the country?” 

“Yes.” 

“And looking well?” 

“No.” 

“I’m sorry for that.” Sally’s eyes became veiled. She 
and Peg looked at each other solemnly. 

“Who can live long with only one lung?” said Sally 
quietly. 

Peg did not reply, but she showed no surprise at this 
first mention from Sally of Sheila’s affairs. She pondered 
for awhile, then said, “Well, enjoy yourself, Sally. Don’t 
keep the young man waiting too long. What’s happened 
to the old one?” 

“I sent ’im off. I don’t want a man that spends his life 
’olding up the public-’ouse walls. One o’ me sisters ’as 
got a feller like that, Christ stiffen ’im.” 

“That’s right. You be careful, Sal. It’s everything to 
a woman the kind of man she gets.” 

Augustus came in later. Peg was irritated fearing he 
would stay the evening. She wanted Sheila to herself. 

It always surprised her that they shared a child be- 


132 


DIFFERENT GODS 


tween them, she felt so completely removed from him in 
every way. He was so like a music-hall parson. She had 
seen pierrots and comedians burlesque lugubrious curates, 
and she had always been certain they exaggerated. But 
Augustus’ every gesture and every expression were pom¬ 
pous, conventional and important. 

‘^Now that Samuel is getting older,” he said, “and more 
liable to receive impressions, I think we must get rid of 
Sally.” 

“I think we mustn’t,” snapped Peg, her eyes flashing. 

“She is unsuitable. Her speech is vulgar, and her ex¬ 
pressions exceedingly unrefined.” 

“She’s clean and healthy and handsome.” 

“Handsome!” 

“Yes. I like having handsome people about me. And 
she understands Sammy and he likes her—anyway, 1 
don’t want Sally to go. If she goes, I go.” 

“My dear-” 

“If she goes, I go.” 

“There is no need—please—there is no need to become 
violent. I am willing to listen to reason.” 

“You know I never reason.” 

“If you-” 

“I like Sally,” said Peg excitedly. 

“Well-” 

“I like her.” 

Augustus kept silent. His solemn face grew troubled. 
He looked at Peg in a strange, baffled way. Then he 
moved his feet, a sign, she knew, that he was going to 
change the subject. 

“That new family shows every sign of coming to our 
church regularly.” 

“Poor devils.” 





DIFFERENT GODS 


133 


“Margaret!” 

“Poor devils! The girls, I mean. How have they got 
such parents? Dragging them to church and meetings, 
day in and day out-” 

“Margaret!” said Augustus pleadingly. 

Peg strove to control the words that bubbled to her 
lips. She had said them so often and they availed nothing. 
She and her husband would always trouble each other. 

“Sheila’s coming to-night. We want to have a little 
chat. She’s back from the country. Are you taking the 
Young Men’s Meeting this evening?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s getting late.” 

“Yes.” 

He got up, then stood still, frowning ponderously and 
with satisfaction. 

“Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate it when you are 
wifely. It was good of you to take an interest in the 
Young Men’s Meeting and to remind me of the passing 
of time.” 

Peg smiled enigmatically and watched him go out, an 
amused, bitter look in her eyes. She opened her library 
book but couldn’t read. She lighted a cigarette and 
smoked it hungrily, listening for the sound of the front 
door bell. 

When it came she got up herself and went and opened it. 

“Hallo!” 

“Hallo!” 

Sheila followed Peg into the room. She was pale and 
deliberate, but her eyes were dilated and shining. 

“Take your things off.” 

“I’ve just been talking to Gilbert. I met him in the 
street. He’s going to West Africa.” 



134 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘Is he?” asked Peg, a film passing over her eyes to 
conceal their expression. 

“Yes. Isn’t it funny? He seemed queer and excited 
and miserable. I wonder what’s the matter? He’s always 
so calm and assured that it made me uncomfortable to see 
him agitated.” 

“Was he agitated?” 

“Awfully. He kept saying: ‘You believe in me, Sheila, 
don’t you? I’ve always been a good man with you, 
haven’t I?” 

“I said, ‘Yes. Why are you going to West Africa of all 
places? It’s so unhealthy.’ He said, ‘I’ve been chucked 
out,’ and that’s all he would say. Aren’t you sorry he’s 
going? You became so friendly.” 

“I don’t care where he goes. Sit nearer the fire. How 
are you? How’s everybody? How did you enjoy yourself 
at Gaston?” 

“Not much. But I didn’t go for enjoyment. I only 
wanted to get away, and Gaston was the first place I 
thought of. Also it’s a long way off, and Grandmother 
hates long journeys. I didn’t want her to come with me.” 

“I was surprised you went there, because you disliked 
it so much when you were there last.” 

“It was the first place I thought of, and I knew there’d 
be no fuss about getting rooms and all that sort of thing, 
or persuading Grandmother very hard into letting me go 
alone. She thinks Mrs. Turton’s the conventional farmer’s 
wife of the pretty pictures.” 

“How’s Philip?” 

“Before I came back from Gaston I was feeling so 
miserable that I pictured myself meeting him in despair, 
but when I saw him I was quite calm. He was more 
miserable than I w^, you see. He came to see me.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


135 


“All that way?’^ 

“Yes. And went back the next day. He had to. He 
was so busy. But we made the most of the short time we 
had. We met at five in the morning.’’ 

Peg stared at Sheila. 

“I told you, didn’t I, you’d get it badly?” 

“Yes,” said Sheila. 

“Fanny’s getting up. I suppose you know that?” 

“No.” 

“She’s getting better by leaps and bounds. All the doc¬ 
tors are surprised.” 

“Don’t say it like that, Peg.” 

“Why not?” 

“She’s a right to live.” 

“And you’ve a right to be happy.” 

“Yes. It’s all in a muddle. I can’t unravel it.” 

“Take some Parrish’s Food. Do something. You look 
so white.” 

“Philip’s given me something. But it won’t do me any 
good. How can putting stuff into my stomach give my 
mind any peace?” 

“It’ll buck you up.” 

“I don’t want to be bucked up. I want to lie down and 
rest.” 

“Can’t you sleep?” 

“No.” 

“Sheila, there are other men.” 

“I don’t want them.” 

“Philip is a delightful man. He’s the sort of man women 
take to and men admire. He isn’t the fascinator type, 
looking out for conquests. And he looks so open-airish 
and strong. You see I admit all that^ but all the same 
there are others.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


136 

“I know. But it isn’t for his charm and good looks I 
love him. I love him because he’s the only man I could 
live with for ever. I love him every minute and in every 
mood. He accepts me without questioning. I don’t need 
to disguise myself or pretend.” 

‘^All women disguise themselves when they’re with 
men.” 

“I don’t when I’m with Philip.” 

“I don’t know what’s to come of it. You can’t go on 
like this for ever, you know.” 

“Like what?” 

“Oh, Fanny having the best of everything, and 
you-” 

“Fanny hasn’t the best of everything,” said Sheila, 
turning red and then going terribly white. “She has 
nothing at all except—except his name.” 

“But how long will that last? Sheila, you’re the only 
person on this earth I truly love, but I’ve got to speak out, 
not to hurt you but to open your eyes. You’ve always 
made a romance of life. I never have. I’ve never wanted 
to. Philip’s a dream of a man, but he’s a man. Fanny’s 
pretty and passionate, and she has the will of ten women. 
She’s not going to die. A girl like her can live for years 
with one lung if she’s got the love she wants as well. 
Philip and she are bound to come together. Then what 
would happen to you? It won’t be for a year or two, be¬ 
cause if any man adores a girl Philip adores you. But he’s 
only a man, and—and—he thinks too well of you to—I 
mean, in the end, Fanny will get him. Then what about 
you? You’ll have given up a year or two of your life 
for nothing.” 

Sheila didn’t answer. Her pallor increased, A curious 



DIFFERENT GODS 


137 

sweat broke out on her face, terror passed over her eyes 
like a shadow. 

Peg started up. 

^Dh, dear! Sheila, don’t faint. You’ll think I’m mean 
and brutd. I had to say it. You’re my sister. I can’t 
see you walk into—into all this.” 

She brought brandy to Sheila, and made her sip it. 

That night Sheila went to bed, knowing she wouldn’t 
sleep. She faced the hours before morning and shuddered 
at them. At two o’clock she could bear with her thoughts 
no longer. She got up and went to the window. She 
threw it open and leaned out, gasping for air. Not one 
star was gold or silver. Not one of them glinted or 
sparkled. Each one was an opal set against the velvet 
of the sky. 

Sheila shrank from looking at it. Beauty was a thing 
that demanded the presence of Philip. Without him all 
glories were a torture. And Peg, who was wiser than she 
was, had sworn that he would one day look at Fanny 
with love. 

She spread out her hands on the window sill, listening 
to the steady tread of footsteps coming along the road. 
She drew back. Perhaps it was a policeman. She would 
wait till he had gone. 

The footsteps drew nearer, stopped opposite the house, 
and didn’t go on. She looked out. Philip was standing 
under a tree, looking up to her window. He couldn’t see 
her, for there was no light in her room. She couldn’t see 
him distinctly, but she clearly recognized him. She leant 
out of the window. Philip took a step forward out of 
sheer surprise, then crossed the road. 

‘^Sheila!” 

‘Thilip! Is it you?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


138 

‘‘Little love, yes.” 

“Wait. I’ll come down.” 

“No,” his mouth said, but his voice said, “Yes.” Then 
he added, hearing her little movement of delight. “Dress 
yourself warm.” 

Sheila flung on some clothes and walked in her stock¬ 
inged feet down the stairs. She opened the door, holding 
her breath, in case the bolt should creak. Then she sped 
out and fell into Philip’s arms. 

He did nothing but kiss her and say her name. She, 
glad, and supremely comforted, leant against him. in rest. 

“You oughtn’t to have come, redly. I oughtn’t to have 
let you come.” 

Sheila laughed. 

“You’re pleased I came.” 

“Of course I am. But I don’t want to worry your 
Grandmother-’ ’ 

“She didn’t hear me. Never mind about that. You’re 
here. We’re actually together! And I thought the night 
would be so long.” 

“I never expected to see you. I was just going to stand 
outside the house.” 

“What good would that have been, dearest?” 

He answered simply: “It would have given me pleas¬ 
ure. I’ve been other evenings, you know, but you were 
asleep.” 

“How fortunate that I went to the window!” 

“Beloved!” 

“What a night it is.” 

“Why weren’t you sleeping?” 

“I was so unhappy.” 

“Dearest-” ’ ^ 

“On account of things that Peg said 3 ^ 

“What did she say?” 




DIFFERENT GODS 


139 


“Terrible things.” 

“What were they?” 

“She said them out of love for me.” 

“What were they?” 

“That some day you and Fanny-” 

“Well-” 

“You—and Fanny-” 

She couldn’t say it. She sobbed once, then leaned her 
head on his arm. 

“Sheila, I haven’t to tell you again, have I? No woman 
in this world will be my wife except you. I’m not saying 
that only because I think I ought to, or because I think 
I have obligations towards you, but because having known 
you, all other women to me are insipid. To love another 
woman in the way Peg means would be a physical im¬ 
possibility.” 

“She was so worried.” 

He did not speak, and they stood in silence for awhile. 
She was happy and tranquil. He was stern and troubled. 

“I don’t mind anything now.” 

“You believe me?” 

“Yes. I believe you.” 

“You’ll never doubt me again?” 

“No.” 

He kissed her without passion and with the utmost 
gentleness. 

“You’re getting cold. You must go back to bed.” 

“I don’t want to leave you.” 

“Dear little girl-” 

“How selfish I am! You have so much work to do. 
You’ll be tired to-morrow. I’ll go. Good night.” 

“Good night, little baby-wife.” 

“Ah! How beautiful that sounds. Good night.” 

She went back to bed and slept. 






CHAPTER XX 


T WO days later Peg sent for her. 

‘‘What is it?” 

“Philip’s been here.” 

“Here? What for?” 

“Don’t look startled. There’s nothing wrong.” 

“How happy you look.” 

“I was as nervous as anything when he came at first. 
Augustus is easy to fool in some things, but in others he’s 
the giddy limit. He didn’t come in though, so it was all 
right.” 

“What did Philip come for?” 

“To talk about you.” 

Peg’s voice was soft. She looked at Sheila with envy 
that contained no jealousy. 

“Sheila, you’re safe with him. I’ll say nothing more. 
Go on loving him. How beautiful it is.” 

“What did he say?” 

“I won’t tell you. But I felt as I ought to feel in 
church but never do. How he spoke of you, Sheila! I’d 
rage no more at my life with Augustus if I knew that, one 
day, some man like Philip would love me as he loves 
you.” 

“Yes, he loves me!” 

“How it must cut him to live with Fanny.” 

Sheila kept utterly still, trying to hide the spasm of 
agony that always shook her at any mention of Fanny. 

“He’s the kind of man that can’t help being chivalrous 
with every woman. How it must cut him! But did I tell 
you what Jinnie told Sally? I don’t think I did.” 

140 


DIFFERENT GODS 


141 

“No, you didn’t,” said Sheila, her lips dry. 

“Jinnie’s the new girl. She has a sister who’s house¬ 
maid at Philip’s. Fanny’s at his house, you know, she 
had herself carted there. Did you know?” 

“No.” 

“Philip has taken to locking his bedroom door, and she 
stands outside it, and knocks and knocks.” 

Sheila bent down to pick up a tiny thread of cotton that 
lay on the floor. 

“When she won’t go away Philip opens the door and 
says, ‘You mustn’t get up out of bed. You’ll catch cold 
and get ill again.’ ” Peg paused and the gap in the speech 
was eloquent. “At last he goes out and walks about.” 

“In the night? In this weather?” 

“Yes. And he’s so hard-worked. He needs sleep.” 

Sally came in with Sammy. 

“Hallo, Auntie Sheila,” he said, with a grown-up air. 

“Hallo, Sammy. Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” 

“Mamma said it was a nuisance.” 

“He’d been eating chocolate,” Peg explained, “and he 
kissed it all on my neck. Who could help getting in a 
temper over that?” 

“O Peg!” 

“All over my neck!” 

“Give me a kiss, Sammy.” 

He kissed her, smiling. 

“Here’s daddy! I can hear him.” He ran to the door 
to meet him, and they came into the room together, look¬ 
ing ludicrously alike, and regarding each other with grave 
affection. 

“It’s your bedtime, Sammy. You know that, don’t 
you?” 

“You take me,” said Sammy to his father^ 


142 DIFFERENT GODS 

Augustus’ smile struggled to conceal his delight, an 
emotion of which he was shy, and he proudly took the 
child upstairs. 

“Fancy Gilbert going off to West Africa! I can’t under¬ 
stand it, can you?” 

“No.” 

“It’s such an unhealthy place.” 

“Yes. How’s Grandmother?” 

“Quite well. Isn’t she marvellously strong!” 

“She’s got a will of iron.” 

“What did she think about my going off to Gaston?” 

“She never said a word about it.” 

“She keeps looking at me, and last night she tucked me 
up in bed. I think she misses you a lot, Peg. You were 
always her favourite.” 

“Poor old Grannie.” 

“I wonder what our parents were like.” 

“Mother looks awfully pretty in that photograph in 
Grandmother’s drawer.” 

“Mustn’t it be thrilling to have a live mother!” 

“People who’ve got one don’t seem to be particularly 
thrilled.” 

“They will be, inside.” 

“I wonder what father was like.” 

“Grandmother hasn’t one photograph of him.” 

“He’d never have one taken, she said.” 

“I don’t think she liked him.” 

“Who?” 

“Grandmother.” 

“She doesn’t seem to like any men.” 

“No. And yet she always talks as though they are the 
chief people on the earth. Don’t you hate it when she 
says, ‘What is a woman!’ and shrugs her shoulders?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


143 


“Here’s Augustus.” 

“Peg, you don’t mind, do you, but I can’t face him 
to-night. I’ll be off before he comes.” 

“All right.” 

Peg took her to the front door and opened it with a 
sweep, breathing deeply. 

“The way he spoke of you!” 

“Tell me what he said.” 

“No. I couldn’t say the words again. And I couldn’t 
tell you how he looked. How lucky you are!” 

“Lucky?” 

“There’s not one girl in a thousand as lucky as you are. 
There’s so much lust in the world, and so many senti¬ 
mental emotions, but the love you read about is so rare. 
And you’ve got it, Sheila.” She leaned out into the air. 
“I’m not a bit afraid for you now. He said—but it wasn’t 
so much what he said as the way he looked. He’s got 
jolly eyes, Sheila, and a mouth that likes smiling, and 
‘man’ is written all over him, but at the mere mention of 

you he looks for a moment like a priest-” She broke 

off, sighing- 

“What did he say?” asked Sheila, her heart moving and 
her eyes dim. 

“I won’t tell you any more. Fasten your coat. It’s 
cold to-night. Give my love to Grandmother.” 

She pushed Sheila quietly away and closed the door. 

When next Sheila saw Philip, she said: “Peg told mt 
you went to see her.” 

“Yes.” 

“What for?” 

“I understood her anxiety. I wanted to show her there 
was no need for it.” 

“She liked you.” 



144 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“I liked her, too. But how different you are!” 

“Yes. We’re awfully different.” 

“I can hardly realize she’s married to Binns.” 

“Isn’t it queer!” 

“She does love you. I judged that not so much by 
what she said as by the way she looked. She bent over 
once and said, ‘She means so much to me.’ ” 

Sheila smiled shiningly. 

“How beautiful it is to be loved! It makes my heart 
open right out, and then close up again.” 

He smiled, turning his eyes on her. 

“Did you get my little letter? I wrote feeling so full 
of thoughts of you that I had to get rid of them somehow. 
So, as I wasn’t seeing you that day, I wrote to you.” 

“It was a dear little letter—just like you. You wrote 
as you talk, exactly. It was a dear little letter, but 
Sheila-” 

“Yes.” 

He stared away, disquieted. 

“Yes, what is it?” 

“Little Sheila, I don’t know how to say it in the best 
way.” 

“Just say it out.” 

“You’d better not write to me again at—at the house.” 
He went on rapidly, dreading to look at her face. “Fanny 
was in the hall when your letter came. Fortunately, I was 
there too . . . and-” 

“All right, I won’t write to the house again. I’ll write to 
the surgery.” 

He was silent, bitterly realizing that she, who above all 
others he honoured, was being drawn, through him, into 
the methods of an intrigue. And she was thinking that the 




DIFFERENT GODS 


145 

man who was to come to her like a knight in a blaze of 
glory had to give her such warnings. 

she were a reasonable woman or a well one it would 

be different, but she so easily gets hysterical and ill-” 

he frowned miserably. 

“Yes?” she said tranquilly. “And what of the other 
thing?” 

“What other thing?” 

“That you’re keeping back from me, dearest. Don’t 
ever be afraid to talk to me.” 

“I’m not afraid, my darling, but-” 

“Yes, you are. You’re afraid of hurting me. Now 
what use would I be to you if I would only listen to nice 
things? What else was it she said?” 

“It’s quite unimportant.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“I mean it’s quite unimportant that you should know.” 

“It isn’t. Tell me what it was.” 

“She said she would find out who you were and-” 

“Oh! You’re afraid she’d come to me and make 
scenes.” 

“She’s quite capable of it. But if she did I would never 
forgive her or allow her in the house. I think she knows 
that. But there’s your grandmother, too. She’s strict. 
I’ve brought enough sorrow into your life. I don’t want 
to expose you to the old lady’s anger. For her own 
sake-” 

“She would hate it if she knew about us.” 

“I gathered that.” 

“So you mean we must be more careful. We mustn’t 
meet so often, and we mustn’t write at all.” 

“There’s bound to be some way out of this. But I can’t 
find it. To see you is a need, and yet I can’t have you. 






DIFFERENT GODS 


146 

yoUy Sheila, looked upon lightly. The world wouldn’t look 
into it deeply. You’re a single girl and I’m a married 
man. That’s all they’d say. They’d giggle the rest or 
whisper it, according to their temperaments.” 

“Never mind-” 

“I’ve played golf with Miss Hammond far oftener than 
with you, and nobody has said a word. I could walk every 
day with Miss Jones or Miss Grey or Miss Bodnam and 
no one would worry. But let me walk down a crowded 
street with you at midday and everybody mentions it.” 

“I wonder how it is?” 

“It’s because you can’t hide love. That’s how it is.” 

“It would be worse if we had no love to hide. Think 
how dreadful it would be if you and I met and didn’t love 
each other.” 

“What a brave little girl I’ve got!” 

“No, I’m only reasonable-” 

“My own most dearest-” 

She smiled with sudden sweetness. 

“—And very best beloved.” 

“All that?” 

“All that.” 

“I suppose,” she said, with affected unconcern, “that it 
will be a long time before I can see you again.” 

“That seems so ridiculous!” 

“And yet-” 

He laughed grimly. 

“It would be discreet. Fancy lovers like us, Sheila, 
having to be discreet! Fancy my fairy girl having to con¬ 
ceal and shift about-” 

“She doesn’t mind. Not now! Do you know what she 
thinks each time some fresh little difficulty turns up? She 
doesn’t let it look like an indignity. She puts it with all 







DIFFERENT GODS 


147 

the others, sets them on fire, and makes them into a sacri¬ 
fice willingly offered for her beloved’s sake.” 

“Dearest-” 

^‘Willingly offered.” 

“Ah! I know what Fate’s done. She peered down with 
her wicked old eyes and muttered to herself, ^I’ll give that 
chap Sheila’s love. And that’s enough for any human 
being. He can’t have Sheila as well or he’d think he was 
a god.’ So she brought us together with her skinny old 
hands and then pushed us apart.” 

“She tried tol” said Sheila gaily. “But she didn’t suc¬ 
ceed. We’re not going to let a skinny old woman interfere 
with us, even if her name is Fate.” 

“If I had money I’d whisk you away! If I had money! 
I’ve never worried before at having to depend on my in¬ 
come. But it’s a tragedy now.” 

“But it isn’t. There’s only one tragedy, and that is,” 
her voice went still and afraid, “that one of us can die 
without the other.” 

His hand went out to her, and yearning made him 
dumb. 

A woman smiled and nudged her companion. 

Sheila tried gently to put his hand away. 

“They’re looking at us.” 

“Are they? Well,” he said passionately, “aren’t we 
driven to make love in the street? I’m not going to meet 
you at night. We don’t want that final ingredient of a 
guilty love affair.” 

“Don’t let it worry you so.” 

“I’d love to have a day with you to-morrow, a whole 
day. But we mustn’t. No, we mustn’t. Every eye would 
see us. Fanny would find out, then Grandmother. Then 
there’d be scenes and scenes and scenes! God! did I say, 



DIFFERENT GODS 


148 

^find out’? Secrecy could make holiness itself seem sinful. 
Are you helpless with scenes, Sheila? I am. I’d rather 
tackle ten navvies single-handed than listen to a woman 
scream and cry even if she’s all wrong.” 

“Let’s have a day to-morrow. Look at the sky. There’s 
going to be beautiful weather.” 

“Yes, it’ll be fine.” 

“It’ll be more than fine. It’ll be pale gold and young 
blue, and barely warm, and very sunshiny-” 

He turned to her with a smile which was lovely in its 
sweetness. 

“Is Sheila a weather prophetess too?” 

“I know it’ll be like that.” She laughed happily, ex¬ 
cited and exhilarated. “Let’s meet early and have all one 
day to ourselves.” 

“I can’t withstand that. Let discretion go hang, just 
for this once.” 

“Just for this little once!” 



CHAPTER XXI 


T hey met early, finding such delight in the sight 
of each other that for a few moments they could 
only smile. 

Then he said, ‘‘It’s just the day you said it would be.” 
“I knew it would be like this.” 

“The train’s going in ten minutes.” 

She laughed, for a journey anywhere with him would 
hold, she knew, the thrill of an adventure. 

“I feel so happy.” 

“What a morning it is!” 

“This air’s rushing to my very finger ends.” 

“You look so lovely. Every man in the station is jealous 
of me.” 

“How ridiculous! Let’s find a seat.” 

They walked to the train and found an empty compart¬ 
ment. 

“Let anyone dare to come in, and I’ll shoot him.” 
“Now you’re like the old Philip.” 

“If you please, madam!” 

“The old Philip who was once Doctor Strongitharm to 
me, the smiling man I used to admire from a distance. 
Nearly all his smiles are gone now.” She broke off, flush¬ 
ing. “But that’s nonsense. I’ve never seen him happier 
than he is now.” 

“I’m forgetting all our worries to-day, Sheila.” 

“So am I. Let’s pretend everything’s all right. The 
train’s going. Don’t you feel excited? I do. We’re rush¬ 
ing away from everything that’s nasty, and the blue eyes 
of the sky are blinking with surprise.” 


150 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^That’s a naughty 

“They are. See those little bits of blue up there with 
white all around them?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“See them open and shut?” 

“No.” 

“You dor 

“I’m prepared to argue, Sheila, I do not.” 

She laughed with enjoyment. 

“How absurd you are!” 

“Sheila. I feel like an emperor, for you’re all mine for 
the moment, aren’t you?” 

“For always.” 

“That’s true, isn’t it?” 

“Of course it’s true.” 

“I’ve no right to be glad. But surely, some day, some¬ 
how, things will come right.” 

“Yes. They will. I’m certain of that when I’m with 
you. But when I’m away from you-” 

“Don’t talk of that. We’re together now. This glori¬ 
ous day is ours. What shall we do when we get to Water- 
ham?” 

“See what sort of trees there are.” 

“And then?” 

“Find a cosy little cottage where we can have our 
meals.” 

“Not a smart cafe with Japanese fans?” 

“The ideal” 

“I knew you’d look like that!” 

“Fancy seeking the company of people when we have 
so much of it at home.” 

“My God, yes!” 

They sat silent for the rest of the journey, enjoying the 



DIFFERENT GODS 


151 

mere touching of arm and arm. When they got out of 
the train he walked with his hand on her shoulder, not 
noticing the amusement of the passers-by. 

Trees were easy to find, and not far off was a strag¬ 
gling seashore. They sauntered about, laughing softly 
with gaiety, and talking happy nonsense, till they found 
the cottage they wanted. In front of it was a narrow 
garden in which flowers fluttered and twirled. The door 
which was covered with funny little knobs of wood was 
opened by a middle-aged woman with a face whose happi¬ 
ness was extraordinary. 

Philip asked if they could have lunch, and the woman 
said gladly: ^Why, yes, if you’ll be satisfied with eggs. 
That’s all I’ve got.” 

“They’ll do splendidly.” 

They insisted on having lunch in the back garden 
much to the anxiety of the woman, whose name was Mrs. 
Wilson, and who kept hovering about them and asking 
them if they felt cold. 

She told them she looked after the house, the little 
shop at the side, the flower-garden, the vegetable garden, 
twenty hens and her nine children. They marvelled 
afresh at the peculiar rapture of her face. She did 
nothing without smiling over it, and each word she said 
had a crooning sound. 

Sheila said, after lunch, that they would be coming 
back for tea, and asked her would she mind if they left 
their coats behind. 

“Mind?” Her reproachful smile repudiated the sug¬ 
gestion, and she watched them go away, leaning out of 
the doorway, and smiling when they turned round at the 
gate. 

“What a remarkable woman/’ said Philip. 


152 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“We might be guests instead of customers.’’ 

“She’s remarkable. Do I—^yes, I do—I spy a bit of 
a wood over there.” 

“So do I. What long trunks! And they all seem to 
be the same size like in pictures.” 

They walked among them, experiencing the curious 
excitement produced by the sight of many trees together. 
Young flowers bloomed at their feet. Philip put his arm 
round Sheila’s shoulders and, laying her head upon his 
hand, she adored him with a gesture. 

The whole earth took on a new significance. The sky 
had an extra tenderness in it, and the small wind had 
a voice. 

When they returned to the cottage for tea the dusk 
was shining as though the sun, on sinking, had left 
some of its gold behind. The majesty of evening touched 
the flowers and they ceased to flutter and twirl. A light 
burned in the window like a fallen star. 

Mrs. Wilson welcomed them back and asked them how 
they’d enjoyed themselves. Her smile deepened when 
she saw they had been happy, and she said as though 
she were making a statement of importance. “The kettle’s 
just on the boil.” 

She took them to the sitting-room and laid the table, 
moving about as though she derived exquisite enjoyment 
from anything she did. She brought the tea in such a 
manner that both Philip and Sheila were certain it would 
have a perfect flavour. 

“How she smiles!” said Sheila when she had gone out 
of the room. 

“And her life would be hell to many a woman. She’s 
got a headache, too.” 

“Has she?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


153 

^^Can you realize we’re in this room all by ourselves 
with nobody watching us?” 

^‘And Mrs. Wilson, like an angel, moving about?” 

“She’s wonderful.” 

She brought more hot water later on, and saw them 
unclasp their hands as she entered. 

Her eyes softened, and as she went out she turned at 
the door and said to Sheila: “You haven’t seen my baby, 
have you?” 

“No.” 

“He’s six weeks old to-morrow.” 

“Is he? I’d love to see him.” 

“Then come into the kitchen when you’ve had 
tea.” 

“Have you a headache?” * 

“Well—yes.” 

“Couldn’t you lie down for awhile?” 

“In the daytime?” 

“Why not?” 

“In the daytime?” She laughed at such an idea. 

“What would become of everything and everybody if 
I laid me down in the daytime?” 

“What do you do for your headaches then?” 

“I just bear them. They come on me when I’m too 
tired.” 

She spoke without complaint, and smiling still, closed 
the door. 

After tea, they knocked at the door of the kitchen. 
Mrs. Wilson called, “Come in,” and found time to give 
them her welcoming smile even though she was undressing 
four of her children for the bath. The elder four were 
sitting round the table, and the baby lay in a wooden 
cradle. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


i 5'4 

He had all the remoteness of extreme babyhood. His 
eyes looked as though they were forgetting secrets, and 
the sweetness of his mouth was sorrowful. His tiny 
hands were spread out on the coverlet, displaying their 
incredible perfection. 

Sheila bent down and kissed him, her face altering with 
poignant joy. 

She kissed him again, and the despairing, tender 
passion of her kiss brought stillness to the room. The 
children looked at her, and the smile of Mrs. Wilson 
pondered. Philip laid his hand upon her arm. 

The air was all darkness when they got outside. They 
walked along quietly. Then Philip stopped and silently 
took her in his arms. She remained in them, quiescent, 
till she raised her mouth, to his, and then their lips 
clung. 

^T’d give my right hand if I’d never to leave you 
again.” 

^^Someday, somehow, things will come right. But I 
don’t want—her—to die.” 

‘‘No,” he said brusquely, feeling afresh the anguish 
that swept over him each time he thought of Sheila’s 
position. “She’s getting on very well.” 

“But it was wrong for her to take you against your 
will.” 

“Don’t talk of it, beloved.” 

“It’s been a glorious day.” 

“I’ve been happy every second.” 

“So have I, so happy. I’ll always remember it.” 

She was remembering it all the way home, and when 
she entered the room where her grandmother was, her 
face was suffused with light. 

They talked of commonplace things till they were 


DIFFERENT GODS 


155 


preparing to go to their bedrooms, and then Grand¬ 
mother said: “Once there was a girl who wanted very 
badly to marry a certain man, but he was poor and 
inferior to her in rank so her parents would not allow 
them to marry. They gave her to a rich man who was 
good and kind, but she never smiled brightly or was 
merry, and every one knew she thought continually of 
the man who had been sent away. In less than a 
year she had a baby, and her husband and parents 
were pleased, thinking it would take her mind away 
from the man she loved. But she only stared at it 
curiously, and never kissed or played with it. And the 
first week she was up she went to the window and opened 
it and said, ^See how far my little Barbara can jump,’ 
and she threw the child out of the window.” 

“Had she gone mad?” asked Sheila aghast. 

“Yes.” 

“Because they kept her from the man she loved?” 

“Yes. Then there was another girl who, too, pined 
for a man who was her inferior, and she grew so pale 
and thin that her parents, who always indulged her, 
said at last, Tet her have him or she will die.’ So 
they married and were very happy—for three months. 
After that they could hardly look at each other without 
quarrelling.” 

“But how was that when they had loved each 
other?” 

“Love is a strange thing. Parting, more than meeting, 
makes it burn.” 

Sheila was going to reply, then, remembering she was 
not supposed to understand such matters, reluctantly 
kept silence. 


CHAPTER XXII 


A FEW weeks later she went shopping in town. 

It was a clear afternoon, and all the shop 
windows were bright. The hats and pretty 
garments behind them seemed to strain wistfully forward 
to peer out into the streets, and Sheila thought: “Poor 
things! I wish you had legs like me. Still, when some 
one buys you you will be going about with her, won’t 
you? And that’ll be a change.” 

She sped forward, enjoying the movement of her limbs, 
then stopped suddenly by a tiny shop to stare at a little 
dark blue vivid hat that said imploringly, “Take me out.” 

It was a tender little thing, not perky or showy or 
disdainful like the ones that pressed forward to the 
window, but mysterious and quiet, and full of a craving 
for sunlight. 

“I’d love to wear you,” said Sheila. “I wonder would 
Philip like you?” Philip had complicated the buying of 
her clothes, for she no longer wanted to please herself, 
but him, and he was never with her to be consulted. 

Would he like her in the little blue hat which was the 
colour of water in moonlight? The question was tremen¬ 
dously important. She pondered over it, gravely. Grand¬ 
mother would say she didn’t need a new hat, and she 
didn’t really. But it was such a beautiful day, and the 
hat was so sad and pretty, and she loved to see the 
look of inquiry in Philip’s eyes when she wore anything 
new. 

She walked into the shop to see if she could try it 
on. Before she had time to speak the hat was brought 

156 


DIFFERENT GODS 


157 

out of the window, and a tall, exceedingly slim woman 
stretched out her hand for it. She had bright pink 
cheeks, a beautiful little pointed nose, glittering eyes, 
absolutely green, and large red lips. She put the hat 
on her head, and her curious russet hair shone beneath 
it. 

“No,” she said abruptly, frowning, “I don’t like it.” 

“Oh I’m so glad,” said Sheila smiling charmingly, 
“because I’ve taken such a fancy to it,” and she turned 
to the girl who had come to serve her. 

“I’m sure it will suit madam,” said the girl gladly. 

“Wait,” said the tall woman suspiciously, and meeting 
Sheila’s smile with a smile that was only a movement 
of the lips. “It’s not so bad after all.” She paused, 
pressing the hat on her head. “I’ll take it. How much 
is it?” 

The girl looked startled and told her the price. She 
paid for it and gave her name and address. 

“Mrs. Philip Strongitharm—” she began. Sheila heard 
no more. The woman was Fanny. Mrs. Philip Strongi¬ 
tharm! Stupidly she thought she could have borne it 
better if she had said only, “Mrs. Strongitharm.” But 
Mrs. Philip Strongitharm! Philip! Philip! 

“Well,” said the girl, when Fanny had gone. “If that 
isn’t spite.” Then she added, smiling kindly, “I’ve a 
brown one, nearly the same.” 

“No, thank you,” said Sheila, very pale, “it was just 
that one I wanted.” 

“She took it for spite. Because it didn’t suit her.” 

“I think it did,” said Sheila. 

The girl grunted. 

“Can’t I show you-” 

“No. Thank you very much.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


158 

She went out into the street, but the day Had grown 
tired. She didn’t want to look at the shops or buy 
any of the little things she had come out for. 

She went into the nearest cafe. It was crowded, and 
too much lighted. A loud orchestra played in a corner. 
A man in a frock coat escorted her grandly to a table 
for two, and pulled out a chair with a sweep. She sat 
down, glad to rest, and then noticed, controlling a startled 
movement, that Fanny was sitting opposite her. 

She wondered if Fanny knew her by sight or whether 
she had only heard of her. She was looking at the menu, 
making restless movements all the time. Every now 
and then she stared at her wedding ring. 

When the waitress came she ordered tea and chocolate 
eclairs, and then looked across at Sheila. Sheila wanted 
to smile at her. There was no need for hatred between 
them, but Fanny’s glittering and murky eyes looked 
incapable of smiling. 

She tapped impatiently at her plate, and when the 
waitress came she said excitedly, ordered chocolate 
eclairs, not pink ones.” 

^They’re just the same, madam-” 

“They’re not.” 

“It’s only the icing.” 

“I want chocolate ones.” 

The waitress, whose right cheek was swollen with 
toothache, turned abruptly to Sheila, asking her what 
she wanted. 

“I said, ‘chocolate eclairs,’ ” said Fanny, her lips 
twitching. 

The waitress turned away with an angry look. 

Fanny breathed rapidly and signed to the man in the 
frock coat, who was not far off. 



DIFFERENI] GODS [159 

“The waitress has been rude to me.’’ 

“I’m sorry for that. I-” 

“I wish to report her.” 

“Certainly-” 

“I ordered chocolate eclairs, and she brought me pink 
ones.” 

“She shall get you chocolate ones, madam.” 

“She said they were the same!” 

“It is merely a question of the icing.” 

“I want chocolate ones,” said Fanny, her voice 
trembling. 

“Certainly, madam.” 

The waitress was walking to the next table. The 
man in the frock coat signed to her. 

“The lady wants chocolate eclairs,” he said quite 
politely. 

The waitress flushed miserably and furiously, and 
brought a plateful of chocolate eclairs, a pulse beating 
in her throat, and set them before Fanny, whose eyes 
looked triumphant and almost happy. 

“That’s the way to treat those girls,” she said to 
Sheila when the waitress had gone. “Such impudence!” 

“She’s very busy. The place is so crowded.” 

“She gets her wages.” 

She picked up her fork, her triumph dying, lifted a 
piece of the eclair to her mouth and put it down again. 
Then she pushed the plate away. After a few minutes 
she put on her gloves, fastening them with great attention. 
She pulled bangles over them at the wrists, and shook 
them several times. Then she fixed her brooch and 
smoothed her neck once or twice. She asked the waitress 
for her bill, and made her conscious of her position by the 
intonation of her voice. The waitress wrote out the bill 




i6o DIFFERENT GODS 

with a bitter little smile, longing to say, “Did you like 
the chocolate eclairs you haven’t eaten?” but not daring. 

Fanny stood up with a great flutter of parcels and 
went out. 

Sheila drank her tea and her heart beat sickeningly. 
She could picture now the scenes Philip had mentioned. 
But she couldn’t picture Fanny ever having been near 
death, she was so interested in the pettinesses of life. 

But she was almost beautiful to look at, and she sug¬ 
gested invincible persistency. Those large red lips would 
smile and smile and smile at Philip while her green eyes 
glittered. Why did she always pluck at her bosom as 
though clothing worried it? 

Sheila left the cafe hearing nothing but her own 
thoughts. The traffic was visible but inaudible. She 
went to Peg. Sally opened the door, looking cream 
and red as usual. Her teeth, which she had never cleaned 
once in her life, were white, even, and perfectly sound. 
Her heavy hair gleamed. 

“The Mrs. is in the morning room,” she said. 

Sheila did not notice Peg’s quietness. She told her 
at once about Fanny, and Peg listened, interested. 

“She spends every cent she can find on clothes, Jinnie 
says, especially transparent ones. She sits in the drawing¬ 
room waiting for Philip, and watching herself in the 
mirror.” 

“You’re pale. Peg,” said Sheila abruptly. 

“Yes,” said Peg heavily. “I’m going to have another 
baby.” 

“What!” 

“Yes,” Peg burst out. “Isn’t it a shame? Isn’t it 
damnable? Why should I have another one? Why 
should men go scot free? I hate it all! I hate it! And 


DIFFERENT GODS 


i 6 i 


they’ll try and make me feed it myself; but will I! That’s 
worse than all the rest even, and I won’t put up with it 
again.” She broke off, crying a little, meeting Sheila’s 
earnest gaze and avoiding it. 

“I know I’m all wrong, but I can’t help it. I know 
I’m like the women they write articles about, and sneer 
at in the papers, but I can’t help it. I’ve tried to see 
beauty in motherhood, but I can’t. It’s beastly, it’s 
cruel, it’s not fair.” She stood up and leaned her elbows 
on the mantelpiece, sobbing to herself. 

Sheila remained silent. 

She had always felt sorry for men, not envious of 
them, where parenthood was concerned. Fatherhood 
was so slight a thing compared with motherhood. She 
had imagined men feeling a little sad jealousy at seeing 
their baby at its mother’s breast. That was such a 
beautiful, holy arrangement. Yet Peg thought it was 
ugly. And how funny that people could have babies, 
when they didn’t want them. If you said, T don’t 
want a jewel,’ it didn’t come and force itself upon you. 
You had to pay heavily for jewels. Yet a baby, much 
more wonderful than any jewel, could come of its own 
accord. And it would have its fingers and toes and 
eyes and ears and the rest of it all complete. She mar¬ 
velled, looking at Peg with pity, but not knowing how 
to express it. 

^‘Sit down, Peggy,” she said affectionately. “It can’t 
be helped, can it? And perhaps it will be a girl. Won’t 
that be nice, to have a daughter?” 

“No. No.” 

“Yes, it will.” 

“She’d only be like Sammy. It’s awful, Sheila, having 
children when you don’t love the man.” 


i 62 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘AhI’’ said Sheila. “Is that it?” 

“It’s awful 1” 

Sheila could say nothing overcome with compassion. 
She had always known, of course, that Peg did not love 
Augustus. Yet when Sammy was born her mind had made 
no inquiries. 

“Have you heard from Gilbert?” asked Sheila, trying 
to change the subject, and mentioning what always in¬ 
terested Peg most, a man. 

“I heard once or twice.” 

“What did he say? What’s been happening to him?” 

“He played cards too much going out, the voyage was 
so long, and he got broke.” 

“Gilbert! I can imagine him doing such mad things. 
Can you?” 

“Yes.” 

“How does he like the West Coast?” 

“He hates it. There are only two or three white men 
there, every one else is black. And it’s as hot as blazes, 
he says; all they can do is drink whisky and take 
quinine.” 

“He shouldn’t do that. Tell him so. How horrid of 
him not writing to me.” 

“He often mentions you.” 

“You never told me.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be interested in him now.” 

“Why now?” 

“Now he’s come a cropper. You thought him such a 
perfect specimen before, a sort of god of music.” 

“What difference does that make?” 

“That’s you, Sheila,” Peg smiled swiftly. “I’m glad 
you said, ‘What difference does that make?’ ” 


DIFFERENT GODS 163 

^‘Why, you wouldn^t expect me to dislike him because 
he’s been unfortunate, would you?” 

“He said he has hardly a friend. Men who’d borrowed 
money from him said how sorry they were and hurried 
away.” 

“Sorry for what? His being sent to West Africa?” 

“I suppose so. I was going to have such a lovely time. 
I’ve met a family of girls with a charming mother 
—and now.” 

“What does Augustus say?” asked Sheila. 

“Don’t talk about him,” said Peg brutally. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


F 


JVE years later Sheila wrote: 


Beloved,— 


'7 canH wait till I see you again before saying this. 
Why did you look so terribly unhappy when you said 
yesterday, ^It is five years since we met?^ Why did you 
look as though you had committed some crime against 
me? 

^‘They^ve been a beautijul five years, sad sometimes, I 
know, but always beautijul. My favourite music has lots 
of sadness in it. Yet I donH keep away from it because 
of that, and go to revues because theyWe supposed to be 
jolly. 

And once you said yesterday, speaking of some man or 
other who has taken it into his head to admire me {of 
course I remember his name, but I donH think him worth 
giving a name to. He^s only ^some man or other? You 
are the one man the world contains) you said: ^Only for 
me you might have loved him. Then you^d have been 
married in white and have worn a wedding ring and been 
thought successful and all the rest of it,^ and you looked so 
baffled and sad and mother-like. 

Dearest, I would rather be your Beloved than a King^s 
wife. ITs no use your saying, ‘Supposing you had never 
met me? I wonH suppose such a horrible thing. I 
couldnH bear to. Once 1 was angry with God for keeping 
us apart, but that was only for a while. When I talk to 

Him now, I always thank Him for you. For how much 

164 


DIFFERENT GODS 165 

worse wotdd it have been if He had never sent you at 
all. 

am incomplete without you. You only can make me 
whole. When I am away from you my spirit walks on 
crutches, it is so used to resting on yours. 

She stopped writing, remembering what he once had 
said, “If I could only proclaim you before the world and 
have you as my wife! I fear and envy every unattached 
man that gets to know you because he can give you what 
I crave to give you and can’t—marriage. I often dream 
we’re standing together in a church and there are always 
twenty parsons there, and four organs all playing the 
“Wedding March,” and I have a thousand wedding rings 
in my pocket, all for you.” 

She smiled tenderly and wrote again: 

^‘Dearest, Vve told you so often that if I wanted a 
wedding ring I could have had one, couldnH I? But I 
donH want any man^s wedding ring, I only want you. 

^^Now will you let that sink into your silly, silly mind 
and donH worry any more. 

Forever and forever yours, 

Sheila.” 

“P. S.— Roger and Beatrice send their love and three 
big kisses each/* 

She addressed the letter to his surgery. The first time 
she did that it had hurt and shamed her, but she did it 
now quite as a matter of course. She felt like the early 
Christians who, in times of persecution, prayed together 
in cellars, not because they wanted to but because they 


i66 


DIFFERENT GODS 


had to, not because they liked secrecy but because it was 
necessary. 

She smiled as she walked to the letter box, all the 
bitterness of five years gone. Peg often said to her, 
‘‘You’re a lucky girl,” and she knew now she was. For 
great as her love for Philip was, his was greater. It 
was mightier, more unselfish, impregnably faithful, blindly 
concentrated. 

Once three years before, she had had a little flirtation. 
Her heart wasn’t in it, she was only trying to get rid 
of suffering, for Fanny had started to boast of Philip 
and talk of him as though he were her husband in deed. 
Even though she knew it wasn’t true she had been filled 
with fury and jealousy that any woman had the right 
to talk of him so intimately. So she flirted for a few 
weeks with John Wingfield, her heart like ice, and then 
told Philip all about it. 

, She had said sobbing against him, “You never do 
things like that,” and he had answered, “I’m never tempted 
to.” He looked at her, his eyes shining and grave, and 
held her away from him by the shoulders while he said, 
“You don’t know yet what you are to me.” 

No, she didn’t, not even yet. He was always filling 
her with surprise. He couldn’t talk dramatic things, 
but he did them. And his patience, when she was con¬ 
cerned, was extraordinary. 

Every Wednesday, if it were humanly possible, he 
stood by a certain ’bus stop to see her pass by on the 
way to Peg’s. On Fridays he walked near her house 
in case she would be going out, or coming in, or looking 
out of a window. On Sundays they went to the same 
church, conscious of each other and nothing else. The 
other days they met. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


167 

Sheila often said: couldn’t go an5n?vhere on the off- 

chance of meeting you. How can you still stand at the 
’bus stop or watch near the house? You so often miss 
me.” 

“Why not?” he said; “the thought that I might see 
you gives me something to look forward to. If I don’t 
see you I know it is no one’s fault. I can’t, owing to 
my work, arrange a definite time, and I can’t expect you 
to hang about all day.” 

“It makes me so miserable if I’m kept from going to 
Peg’s on Wednesday, or else'have to go later.” 

“I feel disappointed. But then I’ve had a whole day’s 
anticipation. It’s when I know definitely in the morning 

that I won’t see you once that day that-” he paused, 

stretching himself and breathing heavily. “It means so 
much to me only to see you, whether I speak to you or 
not.” 

“But when I see you by the ’bus stop I long so much 
to speak to you.” 

“So do I.” 

f 

He had a: way of speaking with great simplicity. He 
did everything simply. Once she had had influenza very 
badly, and Peg had had to tell him, though she dreaded 
it, in order to explain why Sheila couldn’t meet him. He 
looked terrified, though he was treating a dozen similar 
cases, and when later she developed, as well, a cold on 
her chest, he climbed over the wall after midnight and 
lay in the garden beneath her window—she was now 
sleeping at the back of the house. He thought: “If the 
light is turned up I’ll know she is worse, for somebody 
has had to come to her. If that is so, I will go in, and 
nobody will stop me.” 



i68 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Sheila had smiled when she heard of this, and Peg’s 
eyes had filled with tears. 

On receiving Sheila’s note Philip wrote back to her: 

‘‘My Own Very Dearest and Most Beloved, 

^‘Thank you for your letter. It made my mind easier. 
How can I help worrying? Do you remember that time 
when you insisted on giving me up and we didnH see or 
hear of each other for three days? WerenH they black 
days? Each day I looked for a letter, and when no letter 
came I thought Ed have to dash my brains out. Yet I 
couldnH ask you to change your mind. That wouldnH 
have been fair. Then you just wrote one word * Philip,^ 
and I threw my hat up to the ceiling, and when I went out 
into the street I thought the newsboys were all shouting, 
'Sheila? 

^'Whenever my conscience worries me I remember those 
three black days and nights when I couldnH speak or eat, 
picturing you smiling at another man, and talking to 
another man, and lying eternally in another man*s arms, 
and I knew then that all the consciences in the world 
couldnT expect me to bear that twice. 

*^DonH forget seven o^clock to-morrow — twenty-six 
hours off! 

All yours, 

Philip.’' 

‘T. S. —Tell Roger and Beatrice to wipe their mouths 
before they send me kisses again; they were all chocolatey. 

P. SS. —I was one up on bogey and had to stand drinks 
all round?* 

She smiled at that. She was always amused at his 
intense interest in all outdoor games, but she liked it. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


,169 

He was always mentioning great names in the world of 
sport, and though she could never remember the person¬ 
alities they labelled, she managed to ask an intelligent 
question or two. 

She was glad he was one up on bogey, and wondered 
what exactly it meant. He had explained it to her many 
times, but she could never remember the details of games, 
and still confused cricket with football. 

She tried to show off once by talking of the number 
of goals a man got in cricket, and Philip listened, quietly 
controlling his smile. And when it finally burst out into 
a laugh she was so hurt that he had to explain to her 
for the thousandth time that he loved her confused ideas 
on sport; they didn’t annoy him. 

‘Tut I want to enter into all your interests,” she pro¬ 
tested, refusing to smile, and turning her head away 
sharply to hide her humiliated flush. 

“I love you just as you are. But you never will believe 
it.” 

“I want to improve myself.” 

“Don’t.” 

“And do away with some of my faults.” 

“I love every one of them.” 

She smiled then, reaching out her hand to touch him, 
and was wrapped round warm, as with a garment, by the 
passion of his smile. 

She walked into the house, enveloped with the memory 
of him, and made tea for Grandmother. 

Grandmother had still more wrinkles; there was hardly 
a smooth patch on her skin, but her eyes were as dark 
and as burning as ever. 

“How are the children?” she asked. Philip had sent 
Sheila’s letter to Peg, and she had called for it. 


170 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“Awfully well. Agnes is such a darling. But I wish 
Peg wouldn’t favour her so openly, for Sammy’s sake. 
Don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you can’t help loving some people more than 
others.” Sheila broke off quickly, expecting some quick 
retort, but Grandmother only smd, “No, you can’t help 
that.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T he following week Sheila was invited by Meta 
Morland, a girl she met at Peg’s, to go with her 
to London to stay with a cousin who was the 
editor of a ladies’ weekly paper and who lived with a 
friend in a flat. 

Sheila was delighted, and persuaded Grandmother to 
let her go. She had never been inside a flat, and thought 
they must be charming things. And she was thrilled at 
the idea of meeting an editor. 

Meta Morland taught higher mathematics in a girls’ 
school, but didn’t look as though she did. She was 
pretty and rather untidy, and wasn’t a bit precise, and, 
though she had a happy laugh and a very good- 
natured face and a keen intellect, her company palled 
after an hour or two, and men never wanted to monop¬ 
olize her. She told Sheila that quite frankly and then 
looked at her with interest. 

Sheila prepared for packing up, excited and happy, 
but conscious all the time of the deep dread within her 
of going away from Philip. This dread crept into her 
each time a parting was suggested, and when the part¬ 
ing drew near it contained her and possessed her till 
she was aware of nothing else. 

When she had said good-bye to him he drew her back 
to say once again: ‘^Don’t forget to change your shoes 
and stockings if your feet get wet.” 

^‘No, I won’t forget.” 

‘‘And at the first sign of the ’flu or any illness go strdght 
to bed.” 


172 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“Yes.’’ 

“And look carefully before you cross the road.” 

“Darling, yes. And don’t forget that all these things 
apply to you.” 

“I feel so anxious when either of us goes away. You’ll 
write every day, won’t you? If you don’t, I’ll imagine 
the worst, so remember.” 

“Good-bye, beloved. I wish you were coming with 
me.” 

“Don’t.” 

“You will, some day.” 

“When?” 

“Some time.” 

“When is that?” 

“Either quite soon or quite far off.” 

“Take care of yourself. My most persistent dream is 
that you are dead.” 

“But how nice the waking must be.” 

“It’s agony.” 

“How impolite.” 

But he wouldn’t smile. 

He kissed her protectively and begged her again to be 
careful of herself. 

Meta’s cousin was a fair girl with heavy hair and a 
high giggling laugh. The friend she lived with was 
mediocre in every respect, and the conversation of both 
was peculiar. 

At least Sheila found it so. 

Over tea Meta’s cousin, whose name was Adelaide, but 
who preferred to be called Paula, suddenly said, poutingly, 
“Where’s Tommy? I can’t have tea without Tommy.” 

Sheila politely looked under the table for the cat. 
Cynthia, Paula’s friend, went out of the room. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


173 


She returned with a small china elephant, and said 
crooningly, ‘‘Here’s Paula’s little Tommy. Paula can’t 
have tea without her little Tommy. No, she can’t.” 

She handed the elephant to Paula, who kissed it 
ridiculously and put it before her on the table. 

When they were going to bed Sheila found she was the 
only one with a nightdress. The others had pyjamas, 
and as soon as they put them on they assumed a man¬ 
like stride. 

Sheila thought they did this consciously and for fun, 
but Paula said, “Isn’t it ghastly being a woman!” 

Cynthia murmured, “Ghastly!” Meta shrugged her 
shoulders and said jealously, “Men get the best of every¬ 
thing.” 

Sheila kept silent, rather ashamed of the fact that she 
thought it a most enthralling thing to be a woman. 

“I hate men,” said Paula; “they only like women if they 
are fools.” 

“Men!” said Cynthia. 

“I can’t understand what other girls do to attract them,” 
said Meta, “and honestly I’d like to know. What do you 
say, Sheila?” 

“Me?” said Sheila, aware of the sudden gaze of the 
other two. 

“Yes, you.” 

“I don’t know.’" 

“That’s how it is,” said Meta, “they never know.” 

“Well, let’s get off to bed,” said Paula, hitching up 
her trousers. 

“Have a look at our cubby hole,” said Cynthia. Sheila 
and Meta went into their bedroom. It was nearly all 
black. The pillow slips and sheets were black, and so 


174 


DIFFERENT GODS 


was the eiderdown, though that was embroidered in the 
middle by a big red spider. 

Over the bed was a crucifix, and by it a photograph 
of Keats. “Theyhe my two heroes,” said Paula. 
adore Christ, don’t you? I think he must have been 
a charming fellow. And Keats was a darling.” 

She blew two kisses to them and began to whistle. 

“Doesn’t she look like a girl with her nightie?” said 
Cynthia, motioning to Sheila. 

“Well, I am a girl,” said Sheila awkwardly, “so why 
shouldn’t I look like one?” 

“How weird you are,” murmured Paula. “Well, good 
night, I’m damned sleepy.” 

“Aren’t they extraordinary?” whispered Meta ad¬ 
miringly, when she and Sheila got into bed. “They make 
me feel so commonplace.” 

“What do they do?” 

“They’re sub-editors.” 

“What of?” 

“Women’s papers. Tor the Home.’ That sort of 
thing.” 

“Gracious I” 

“Of course they despise the work, especially Paula; 
she’s a poetess really.” 

“Is she?” asked Sheila with respect. 

“She has wonderful opinions. She thinks that the only 
two poets the world has ever known are Keats and 
Solomon. Shakespeare was a mediaeval Walter Melville, 
she says. Oh, she’s wonderful.” 

“I don’t think so if she thinks things like that. What 
about Browning? And-” 

“Don’t mention Browning to Paula.” 

“Why not?” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


175 


“She loathes him.^’ 

“How can she when he wrote Men and Women?^^ 

“She has awfully decided views. I do feel dissatisfied 
with my life when I think of hers. Teaching isn’t bad 
sometimes, but it’s the same old thing.” 

“I haven’t said my prayers!” 

“Do you still say them?” Meta turned in surprise. 
“What are you getting up for? Why can’t you say them 
in bed?” 

“I don’t think God likes that. There are no mice here, 
are there, or cockroaches?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“I’ll wrap my feet up in my nightie.” 

She knelt beside the bed and first of all asked God to 
keep Philip safe, and watch over him, and love him. Then 
she asked for her sins to be forgiven and told God she 
tried to be good but that sometimes queer thoughts would 
come into her mind against her inclination. She owned 
to Him that on seeing a blind baby the week before she 
had exclaimed to Him, “How could you?” and had re¬ 
proached Him in her thoughts. “But You being God,” 
she said, “will understand how that was.” 

“Are you asleep?” said Meta. 

“No,” said Sheila, and got up. Meta looked at her 
face, and saw there was rapture in it. 


CHAPTER XXV 


T he next day she went to see some of the sights, 
went back to the flat feeling very tired, and 
made some tea. 

Cynthia and Paula came home at seven looking fagged, 
and Paula said with a yawn, “Wayfield’s coming tonight, 
so out of pure courtesy I’ll wash my face.” She yawned 
again but took a long time to dress, and, when Way field 
came, veiled the swift shining in her eyes with a bantering 
smile. 

He was a little man, and he sat with his knees together 
like a woman. His voice was nasal, and when he smiled 
he laid his head on one shoulder. Sheila felt passionately 
sorry for him without knowing why. 

Over supper he ate scrupulously, and stroked stray 
crumbs in a little pile, placing them neatly on his plate. 

“I went to a lunatic asylum yesterday,” he said, 
«and-” 

“Really!” said Paula enthusiastically, leaning one 
elbow on the table. “How charming!” 

“Frightfully interesting! Jones and I went to see 
Barclay. He’s been in two years.” 

“Poor creature!” ejaculated Sheila, involuntarily. 
“Not at all! He’s perfectly happy. After all, who 
is mad, and who is insane? Barclay’s happier in the 
asylum than he ever was before.” 

“That’s impossible!” said Sheila warmly. 

“On the contrary!” 


176 



DIFFERENT GODS 


177 


“Quite!” agreed Paula scornfully. 

“Barclay’s quite happy. He talked all the time of 
women’s throats.” 

“What a scream!” murmured Cynthia. 

“And he kept saying, Why shouldn’t I like women’s 
throats?’ ” 

Cynthia and Paula laughed aloud. Sheila felt troubled 
and was glad when two women came in. They were 
both tall and untidy and had weary, disdainful faces. 
Paula welcomed them cordially, and Cynthia gazed at one 
of them with adoration. 

She had perfectly regular features, large hands and 
feet, a beautiful white skin, and beautiful silvery-fair 
hair. Her voice had music in it, but her eyes were without 
expression. 

“Better?” asked Paula. 

“No,” answered the other one. “She says she is, out 
then Inga’s always bravery itself.” 

“Don’t be absurd, Ray,” said Inga drearily. 

Ray flashed her a look of love. 

“Come and sit round the fire,” said Paula. “I’ll push 
the table away. I loathe the sight of dirty dishes, but I 
loathe, still more, putting them away.” 

“I’ll get my embroidery,” said Wayfield. 

He took out a grey satin cushion cover and looked 
at a bundle of coloured silks with enjoyment. Then 
he began to sew. Sheila looked at him, and her pity 
for him increased, but she was conscious of repulsion as 
well, and she could hardly bear to watch him, sewing so 
interestedly, his legs crossed, and his little slim fingers 
holding the needle like a girl. 

They arranged their chairs round the gas fire which 


DIFFERENT GODS 


178 

sent out its ugly heat, and Sheila wondered why they 
did sit round it, seeing that it was neither changeful nor 
comforting, and she thought that if no other sort had 
ever existed the habit of sitting round the hearth would 
never have been formed. 

Inga sat on the biggest chair and Ray at her feet 
in an attitude of humble worship. Now and again Inga 
stroked her neck, and then Ray would go still, holding 
her breath. 

When they had gone Paula said, ^^Inga’s wonderful, 
isn’t she?” 

^Why?” asked Sheila. “What does she do?” 

“Nothing. It isn’t what she does, it’s what she is. 
She’s just wonderful. Nothing disturbs or affects her, 
and she’s always bored.” 

“Her skin and her hair I” said Cynthia. 

“Ray is awfully fond of her,” said Meta. “She despises 
men; she thinks they can’t do anything properly.” 

“But they’ve made ships and bridges and laws, and 
—and—chivalry,” said Sheila. 

“Absurd child! ” said Paula. 

“But they have.” 

“How did you like Wayfield?” 

“I wish he wouldn’t sew.” 

“Why not?” 

“I hate it.” 

“Why?” 

“A man sewing I” 

“Why not?” 

“There’s something horrid about it.” 

“But there are tailors and male dressmakers.” 

“Yes,” admitted Sheila. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


179 

‘^And artists and sculptors. They use paint and clay. 
He uses silks. That’s the only difference.” 

Sheila could find no reply, but she still felt that it was 
a shameful thing for a man to embroider a piece of satin 
for enjoyment. 

“Wayfield is always saying, ‘Why should women have 
the monopoly of beautiful things, simply because they 
are women?’ He always threads coloured ribbons in his 
nightgowns, he says.” 

“His nightgowns!” 

“Why not? Really, Sheila,” said Paula with some irri¬ 
tation, “your ideas are all cut and dried.” 

“I don’t think they are,” said Sheila, “but I hate to 
think of a man wearing a. nightgown trimmed with 
ribbons.” 

“And lace.” 

“Lace!” 

“What are your objections?” 

“I can’t put them into words.” 

“But we wear pyjamas. Do you hate them?” 

“No. But you’re women, and women can be excused 
for dressing up.” 

“But we don’t wear them to dress up; we wear pyjamas 
because we like them, and Wayfield wears nightgowns 
because he likes them, and-” 

“Well, he shouldn’t like them.” 

“Let’s go to bed,” said Cynthia diplomatically, winding 
her arm round Paula. 

“Are all the men they know like Wayfield?” Sheila 
asked Meta when they were undressing. 

“I don’t know. That’s the only one I’ve met.” 

“Aren’t they all funny people?” 

“Awfully.” 



i8o DIFFERENT GODS 

Before she went to sleep, Sheila thought of Philip and 
visualized his kind, man’s smile, his big hands, and 
broad, strong body. She thought of his delight in games 
and his love for everything active and gay, and she felt 
as though she had been away from him for a thousand 
years. 



> s 


CHAPTER XXVI 


S HE went for a walk at about six o’clock next eve¬ 
ning and met Way field who was coming to the flat. 
He asked her could he accompany her, speaking 
deliberately, and saying the syllables of each word as 
though they were words themselves. 

He led her into Hyde Park and found a seat. There 
were trees of all sizes, and plenty of grass, but she couldn’t 
help remembering that London was round about. The 
air was beautifully dim, and the moon cream-coloured. 

He asked her had she read George Moore, and she said 
she had never heard of him. 

He looked shocked and really worried, and said 
astoundedly: ‘‘Do you mean that?” 

“Yes,” said Sheila. “Who is he?” 

“George Moore! Haven’t you heard of Memoirs of 
My Dead Life?” 

“No. ‘Memoirs’ is a dull word.” 

“It’s a great book. May I lend it you?” 

“Thank you. I’d like to read it.” 

He stared at her with astonishment, and said, “How 
extraordinary that you have never heard of George 
Moore!” 

“I know lots of people who haven’t.” 

“Incredible!” 

“But why? It isn’t as though he were Shakespeare, or 
Dickens, or Shelley, or anyone like that. What does 
he mean by his dead life?” 

“I’ll lend you the book.” 

i8i 


i82 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“Isn^t the moon pretty to-night? It makes me love 
people, looking like that.’^ 

he said, and drew nearer to her. ^‘Do you love 

people?” 

‘‘Oh yes, don’t you?” 

“Sometimes. But people don’t love me for very long.” 

“Don’t they?” Her first pity for him came back to 
her and she spoke to him kindly. “Perhaps you imagine 
that.” 

“Oh no. Some people like me well enough at first, then 
they tire of me. You are quite interested in me now, but 
in time you will tire of me too.” 

“Oh no!” said Sheila compassionately. “I’m sure I 
wouldn’t.” 

“You would. Do you like me now?” 

“Yes,” she lied. 

“If you were to meet me often and I were to ask you 
that again you would say without hesitation, ‘No, I don’t 
like you.’ ” 

“I’ll never say that,” she said, her eyes soft, realizing 
that none of the people she truly loved had ever tired 
of her, and her sorrow for the little man increased. 

“Sometimes I shut myself up,” he said, “and nobody can 
get to me.” 

“You shut yourself up?” 

“Not with lock and key. I mean I live within myself 
and don’t hear or see anything outside. Then when 
people come to me I hardly recognize them, and that’s 
the beginning of the end.” 

“How wicked of them! Now if I were your friend 
I would accept your failings as I would want you to 
accept mine.” 

“Would you be my friend?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


183 

SHeila hesitated. ^‘Friend’’ was a word she never used 
lightly, and, though she was saturated with pity for him, 
she remembered his curious unmanliness, his love of em¬ 
broidering his nightgowns, his feminine gestures, and 
she knew they would emphatically prevent her from ever 
being his friend. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said. 

A girl and a man passed them. The man was slight 
and pale. There was no burliness or excessive masculinity 
about him, and yet Sheila was aware that he possessed the 
quality of—was it manhood? Manliness wasn’t the right 
word for it. She couldn’t find the right word, but she 
knew that whatever the quality was called Wayfield did 
not possess it, and she felt indignant somehow that Nature 
had so defrauded him. 

“Of course I’ll be your friend,” she said maternally. 

“And if my shut-up mood comes upon me, will you 
seek me out, or will you turn from me, like the others?” 

“I’d seek you out,” said Sheila, ashamed of herself 
for thinking, “I won’t be here yery long.” 

“There’s a dark place within me,” he said. “Some 
day I’ll let you look into it.” His lips parted, and his 
eyes blazed feebly. Sheila felt the repulsion of yester¬ 
day sweep over her again, but she smiled deliberately. 

“It’s a dark place,” he said. 

“Is it?” she asked, feeling afraid. 

“Have you any dark places?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“Ah! I knew we had something in common. Dark is 
the right word. Ordinary people would say ‘bad’-” 

“I didn’t mean bad places,” said Sheila, startled and 
whispering. “I mea^t ‘hidden.’ ” 

^‘You mean what I mean, I’m certain of that,” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


184 

He took one of her hands in his. She withdrew it 
quickly, and he said bitterly, “Is that what you mean by 
‘friend’?” She let her hand remain in his for a moment 
and shuddered. 

“It’s getting late,” she said abruptly. “They’ll have 
started supper.” 

She stood up and began to walk away, slowly. He 
followed her, and she noticed his little mincing footsteps. 
She wanted to run away, but her pity for him was over¬ 
whelming and she chattered kindly as they walked to 
the flat. 

Paula looked gloomy when they went in, but she gave 
her usual bantering smile, and later in the evening often 
laughed in her high, giggling fashion. 

He went early, and Paula said, “My dear Sheila, have 
you been making assignations with Wayfield?” 

“I met him when I was going for a walk.” 

“It must have been a long walk,” said Paula, laugh¬ 
ing again, “and I thought you hated him so because he 
embroiders and wears nightdresses.” 

“I don’t hate him; I’m terribly sorry for him.” 

“How amused he’d be to hear that.” 

“I don’t think so. I think he knows he’s a pitiful 
creature, and is miserable about it.” 

“How long have you known him, Paula?” asked Meta. 

“Only for a few months.” 

“What does he do?” 

“He writes stories that are so good he can’t sell them 
—beautiful decadent things.” 

“I always used to call that ‘decaydent,’ ” said Sheila 
interested. “Why are his stories decadent? What does 
decadent mean?” 

“Well——” began Cynthia. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


18^; 

‘‘Don’t start explaining,” said Paula irritably. “It’s 
a question of understanding, not instruction. Sheila is 
quite intelligent, but she’s horribly ignorant of the things 
that matter.” 

“Paula!” said Meta reproachfully. 

“My dear girl, I’m not being offensive. I’m merely 
stating a fact. A child can be as clever as possible, but 
the most ordinary adult couldn’t converse with it with¬ 
out stumbling upon its ignorance.” 

“I’m twenty-five,” said Sheila aggressively. 

Paula gave a hopeless shrug. Cynthia said, obedient 
to her unspoken wish, “Do let’s get to bed,” and Meta 
said gruffly, “Come on, Sheila.” 

“Paula’s been in a beastly temper all evening,” she 
said, closing the door with a conspirator air. “And I 
do think she snapped you up unnecessarily.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Meta; don’t look so worried.” 

“I was frightfully keen on coming to London, and 
thought it awfully jolly of Paula to ask me to bring a 
friend along with me, but-” Meta stopped, remem¬ 

bering what Paula had said earlier in the evening: “I 
told you to bring a friend, Meta, so that Cynthia and I 
wouldn’t have to be tied to you, and you could go about 
together. But why bring a creature with the body of a 
woman and the mental outlook of an idiot child?” 

“I think it was awfully jolly of her.” 

“I haven’t seen her for years. You know how rela¬ 
tives drift apart, and I was awfully bucked to discover 
she lived in a flat of her own, and was an editor.” 

“Don’t look like that, old girl,” said Sheila smiling. 

“At home I often feel advanced talking to mother’s) 
friends. But here I feel like a back number. I wonder 
are all Londoners like this.” 



i86 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“I wonder.” 

Sheila knelt down to say her prayers, laying her cheek 
on the bed, in rest, to first of all get ready for God. For 
she didn’t like talking to Him without seeing Him, and 
it wasn’t always possible to visualize Him at once. 

‘‘What do you say, Sheila?” asked Meta, sitting on the 
bed and looking very pretty. 

“All sorts of things.” 

“ ‘Our Father’ and all that?” 

“Not always.” 

“I think I’ll say prayers too. But do you really think 
He listens? How can He? Think of the thousands all 
praying at once. And how could He possibly pay atten¬ 
tion to all our little wants? Can you explain that?” 

“Of course I can’t. How can I explain God? Sup¬ 
posing one cow said to another, ‘What does the farmer 
do when he opens a book and stares at the little black 
marks on it?’ The other cow could only say, ‘I don’t 
know.’ ” 

“I get so muddled sometimes.” 

“So do I.” 

“Do you really?” 

“Of course.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


O N Friday Meta went to the office to meet Paula 
and Cynthia, have tea with them in town, and 
go to a spiritualist seance. Sheila stayed in and 
prepared supper. 

She re-read Philip’s last letter, gaily and tenderly 
smiling at the delightful nonsense it contained. She 
lingered over the postscript: ^^How empty this place is 
without you. Fancy a kiddie your size filling a town. 
But you do, because now youWe gone there isnH a blessed 
thing in it!^ 

She wrote him several pages in reply, and abruptly 
finished off when she heard the girls coming upstairs. 

They entered the room wearily, looking strained. 
Cynthia and Meta said that the seance had made them 
feel nervous. Paula said she had been interested in dis¬ 
covering to what extent people could make fools of them¬ 
selves. They sat down in silence for supper. 

‘T wonder if there’s anything in spiritualism?” said 
Sheila, at length, in order to make conversation. 

‘‘Why assume that we have spirits at all?” said Cynthia, 
pathetically trying, as she often did, to appear clever. 

“I don’t assume it for one moment,” said Paula dis¬ 
dainfully. “Half the people in this world make me sick. 
I lunched with Inga to-day, and she told me about their 
servant-girl. The whole thing’s revolting.” 

The girls waited while Paula wetted her twisted lips 
and frowned with distaste. 

“The girl’s going to have a baby, and she hardly knows 

187 


i 88 


DIFFERENT GODS 


the man. She came whining to Inga and Inga said that 
she couldn’t help but say it served her right. Isn’t it re¬ 
volting and beastly? She only met him a few times. Poor 
Inga, having to be in a situation like that! She stepped 
into it so innocently. It seems she’s come across the girl 
crying a great deal lately, so asked her what was the mat¬ 
ter. The girl said she daren’t go home to her mother, and 
she had no money, and the man was gone. But that isn’t 
the worst of it. She actually added, T loved him.’ ” 

Paula breathed hard, her face writhing with disgust 
and hate. ‘Tsn’t it disgusting?” 

‘‘What is Inga going to do?” asked Sheila quickly. 

“Get her away somehow. Inga’s the most sensitive soul 
in existence.” 

“I thought Inga prided herself on her unconvention¬ 
ality.” 

“Inga prides herself on nothing,” said Paula sharply. 

“It must be awful for her,” said Cynthia. 

“Such girls exist, of course, but to have one constantly 
so near to you, to see her about and be reminded I And 
Inga’s so rare-” 

“Poor girl!” said Sheila sarcastically. “Her position 
is so much more painful than the servant-girl’s.” 

“I quite expected you would make a heroine of the 
unfortunate creature,” said Paula contemptuously. “Your 
mind has no subtlety in it. It consists of melodrama. 
To you the girl is a heroine-” 

“She isn’t.” 

“But she gives all for love and a.' few other phrases 
like that.” 

“Is Inga going to give her notice?” 

“She’ll have to,” said Cynthia with some impatience. 

“Why?” 




DIFFERENT GODS 189 

^‘Inga’s neither a millionaire nor a philanthropist,” 
sneered Paula. 

‘‘What is she going to do?” 

“Who?” 

“The girl.” 

“There are workhouses and homes and things. She said 
her mother would go down to the grave if she knew, and 
cried all the time without a handkerchief. These people 
always use sensational phrases.” 

“Poor Inga!” said Cynthia, gazing at Paula obediently. 

“Her imagination’s so keen.” 

“Has she forgotten that she herself was once born?” 
asked Sheila, very white. “I don’t suppose she was 
brought from Heaven or placed in a gooseberry bush.” 

“Please don’t try to be funny,” said Paula disdainfully. 

“Was her mother shuddered at?” 

“Are we having supper soon?” drawled Paula, motion¬ 
ing to Cynthia. “Much as I would like to please Sheila 
I cannot fall down and worship a coarse little servant- 
girl.” 

“I don’t expect you to worship her,” said Sheila, “but 
to pity her.” 

“In other words, to encourage her.” 

“No, to pity her. Think of the care an ordinary woman 
gets when she’s going to have a baby, and even then her 
suffering is awful. But this poor creature has to slink 
about, and hide herself, and wonder where the next penny 
is to come from. And Inga tells her it serves her right. 
That’s hitting a man when he’s down.” 

“She should have thought of all this beforehand.” 

“But it happens that she didn’t. And if the man had 
acted decently and married her no one would have 
known.” 


190 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“That would have been pleasanter for Inga.” 

“Yet she would have been the same girl,” said Sheila 
excitedly. “A human being’s decency can’t depend on 
the actions of another human being. Inga’s point of view 
is as merciless as that of her despised conventional people, 
who dare to say, ‘He made her an honest woman.’ As 
though a girl’s honesty depends on the whim of a man 
and not on her own soul I” 

“Inga would be the first to admit that.” 

“Yet she’s sending the girl out into the streets.” 

“More melodrama, Sheila?” 

“What’s happening to her?” 

“Inga’s advised her to go to her mother,” said Cynthia 
quickly, her eyes reproaching Sheila for prolonging the 
argument. 

“But she said she can’t.” 

“Do you expect Inga to keep the girl?” asked Paula. 

“No, but to help her, not to send her away till she’s 
somewhere to go to.” 

“She’s got her mother to go to.” 

“But she can’t go to her mother. Hasn’t she explained 
that? Can’t you understand the horror of having to live 
with some one who will continually reproach and revile 
you?” 

“Inga can’t be held responsible for that.” 

“No. But why can’t she give her time? Why is she 
sending her away at once? Why can’t she speak to her 
kindly and not make her feel like an outcast? Why, if 
the man had married her, she might have been a happy 
and respected woman now. How terrible that happiness 
and respect depend so much on the actions of other 
people! God doesn’t judge things that way.” 

“Sheila knows,' murmured Paula, 


DIFFERENT GODS 


191 

‘‘He doesn’t interfere with things anyway,” said 
Cynthia. “He allows them to go on.” 

“Oh, do shut up, all of you,” said Meta unhappily. 

Sheila stood up abruptly and went to her bedroom. She 
felt she couldn’t eat supper or bear to look at Paula’s 
mocking face till she was calmer. She sat on the bed 
holding her head within her hands. 

After a time Meta came, looking very miserable. 

“Sheila, isn’t it awful? What on earth’s wrong with 
everybody?” 

“How dare they speak of that girl like that?” 

“But it’s awful, isn’t it? You can’t deny that. She 
hardly knew the man.” 

“But that Inga should tell her it serves her right! 

“There’s the bell. I wonder who’s come at this hour?” 

They remained quiet, and heard Cynthia go to the door. 

“Something’s the matter,” said Meta listening. 

“What?” said Sheila, listening too, and suddenly still. 

Cynthia; burst into the room incoherent and white. 

“What is it?” cried Sheila. 

“Inga’s here. She’s nearly fainting. When she went 
home she found the servant girl hanging from a nail on 
the door—dead.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


T he next morning was dull and rainy. Sheila 
got up early and wrote a letter to Peg, asking 
her to send a telegram summoning her home. 
She felt she could bear the place no longer, but didnT 
like to risk hurting Meta’s feelings by saying she wanted 
t© go home sooner than had been arranged. 

Paula behaved pleasantly and with dignity. Sheila 
couldn’t help but admire her cleverness. She brought 
Sheila into every conversation and yet did not pointedly 
pay attention to her. 

Peg’s telegram came next midday. Peg must have gone 
out as soon as she received Sheila’s letter. She was always 
to be relied upon. 

Paula said she was extremely sorry Sheila had to go 
so soon, and Cynthia echoed her words. Sheila said she 
was sorry, too, and wondered why so many lies were 
necessary since they all knew, she was certain, she had 
asked Peg to send the telegram. 

Philip was as jolly as a boy with delight at seeing her. 
They went to Waterham and walked along the shore 
hand in hand. Philip sang absurd songs and laughed as 
he sang. His eyes were merry, and his clear brown skin 
glowed. 

“It’s lovely to see you again. I feel as though I’ve been 
living in an asylum and have just come out,” said Sheila. 
“Do you, darling? 


192 


DIFFERENT GODS 


193 


^^There once was a man named Michael Finegan, 

Grew some whiskers on his ch/inegan. 

The wind came out and blew them inegan, 

Poor old Michael Finegan, beginegan 
There once was a man -" 

^Thilip, if you sing that any more-” 

“There once was a man named Michael Finegan, 

Grew -” 

He suddenly picked her up in his arms. She wriggled 

her feet about, protesting. ^‘There are people^- 

don’t care if there are. All this little bundle’s 
mine.” 

‘Thilip, please—there’s a man over there.” 

^^Oh yes, about five miles away. Now, darling, what 
on earth has that man got to do with us?” 

“Put me down.” 

“All this little bundle’s Sheila. Fancy a little thing like 
this taking the light out of a man’s life for a whole fort¬ 
night by going off to London and mixing with literary 
celebrities!” 

“Celebrities!” 

“Ask me very nicely to put you down.” 

“Sir, have you been drinking champagne?” 

“Never a drop. But I don’t deny I’m drunk. I’m 
drunk with you, Sheila.” 

“Beautiful, lovely, beloved Philip, put me down, not 
because I want to leave your arms, but because I’m so 
conventional. And that man-” 

“Who is now five miles five inches away-” 

“—might report us to the Lord Mayor.” 

“Waterham with a Lord Mayor! That’s Sheila.” 








194 DIFFERENT GODS 

so happy to be back. But don’t look at me with 
so much love.” 

can’t help it.” 

—because you make my heart say, Dh dear! I don’t 
know what to do with myself! ’ And it flutters and jumps 
about.” 

“Where is it?” He laid his hand upon it. “It’s like a 
little chicken’s.” He put her down, taking her hat off, 
and running his fingers through her hair. “I wish some¬ 
times, I didn’t love you so much.” 

“Don’t wish that.” 

“It’s so hard on a man.” 

“Don’t let’s talk sadness to-day. Let’s look for that 
cottage. Do you remember it? Do you remember that 
smiling woman with the baby and lots of children and a 
little shop and a vegetable garden?” 

“Yes, I do. How long is it since we saw her last?” 

“Years and years.” 

“Five. Yes, let’s go and find her.” 

They lost their way several times, but at last found 
the cottage. Mrs. Wilson opened the door and smiled 
when she saw them. 

“Do you remember us then?” asked Sheila. 

“I remember you well. Come in.” She welcomed 
them, her body bent forward. “Put your things in the 
front room and I’ll put the kettle on.” She whispered 
to Sheila as they walked along the passage. “I suppose 
you’re married now.” 

“No,” murmured Sheila. 

Mrs. Wilson looked at her swiftly, but only smiled ‘ 
again, not speaking. 

“How’s your baby?” 

“Baby? If he heard you say that he’d soon tell you 


DIFFERENT GODS 195 

he’s a man. He’s five.” She called him, waiting for his 
reply. 

“Jackie.” 

“Yes, Mammie.” 

“Come here a minute.” 

He came shyly, resting his head against his mother’s 
thigh, and covering his bright dark eyes. 

“How he’s grown!” said Sheila, her voice soft. “He 
was such a little thing when we were here before.” 

“I’m five,” announced Jackie, aggressively. 

“Yes. Aren’t you a man!” said Sheila tenderly. 

“I’m a big man.” 

“I won’t be a minute making your tea,” said Mrs. Wil¬ 
son. “You won’t be having it outside, will you? It’s 
going to rain.” 

“No, we’ll have it here.” 

“Come along, Jackie.” 

Sheila sat at the table and leant her elbows upon it. 
When Philip came near to her she put one arm round 
him and kissed him silently and with anguish 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Yes. What is it?” He drew up a chair and sat be¬ 
side her, still encircled by her arm. 

“Do you remember me asking you before if you remem¬ 
bered Mrs. Wilson, pretending by my voice that I myself 
had forgotten her till then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I hadn’t forgotten her.” 

“I knew you hadn’t.” 

“When you used to suggest coming to Waterham I’d 
never come, would I?” 

“No.” 


196 DIFFERENT GODS 

“Do you know why that was? It was because of 
Roger.” 

“Was it, sweetest?” 

“Yes, he should be nearly five by now. I couldn’t have 
stood going and watching Jackie growing and growing. 
Wasn’t that small and beastly of me? It wasn’t that I 
disliked Mrs. Wilson or Jackie; I love them both. It is 
only that he reminds me-” 

“Beloved-” 

“Will we ever have him?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Say, Wes, we will.’ ” 

“I wish I could.” 

“Why can’t you?” 

“Darling, the world would give him an ugly name. 
That’s one reason. You would lose caste. That’s an¬ 
other. I might die before he came—but I can’t dwell 
upon that. That’s the biggest reason. It breaks my sleep 
many a night. We can’t live together openly in our class 
of life, and Roger will never come unless. We can’t go 
elsewhere because we haven’t the money. There’s Grand¬ 
mother-” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” she interrupted him wearily and with¬ 
out impatience. “Doesn’t it show you how much I am 
improving that I am able quite—quite calmly—to come 
here and see Jackie.” 

“My own girl!” 

“Here’s Mrs. Wilson!” 

Mrs. Wilson brought in the teacups on a tray, looking 
at them affectionately. 

“How are your headaches?” asked Sheila. 

“Better, thank you. I suppose that’s because I’ve less 
to do. But I miss rocking a cradle all the same. ‘Hurry 





DIFFERENT GODS 


197 


up and get married/ I say to my eldest girl; don^t 
know what to do with myself when my work’s done!’ I 
only tease her of course. All my children are doing well; 
they’re my own, but you wouldn’t find better children 
anywhere. They’re all doing well.” 

“I’m so glad.” 

“I’ll just bring in the tea now. You’re not looking 
so well as you used to, dearie, you’re thinner.” 

“Yes, I’ve gone thin.” 

“But I like you, sir, grey at the sides.” 

“He shouldn’t be grey yet,” said Sheila, giving him a 
swift, compassionate look. 

“I think grey hair’s respectable-looking myself.” 

Philip laughed. 

“I’m glad you’re respectable-looking,” said Sheila when 
Mrs. Wilson had gone out of the room. 

“Isn’t she delightful?” 

“Did you notice how keenly she looked at us?” 

“And how kindly?” 

“Yes. She’s wondering why we aren’t married yet.” 

“Do you blame me, Sheila? Will you ever throw these 
years in my face and say, ^See what you’ve wasted for 
me’?” 

“Don’t talk like that, Philip. How dare you? Why, 
years aren’t wasted as long as you’re in my life. If you 
were ever out of it-” 

She broke off, afraid of that thought, and clung to him 
for a moment. 



CHAPTER XXIX 


O NE evening as Sheila was going to Peg^s she 
heard a voice call her name excitedly. She 
looked up and saw Gilbert push through a 
group of people to get to her. He was brown-skinned 
and haggard, and his body was thin. He was different, 
too, in another way; she didn’t know how. 

He kept shaking her by the hand, and she could only 
say, laughing, “GilbertI Is it you?” 

“Let’s walk along somewhere.” 

“How long have you been home?” 

“A month.” 

“A month! And you’ve never looked us up? Peg 
, would have been so glad to see you. When are you going 
back?” 

“To-morrow.” 

“Oh! How wicked of you! Perhaps you could see 
Peg somewhere to-night. You were such friends, weren’t 
you? I wish you weren’t going back to-morrow. It’s so 
nice seeing you again.” 

He took her arm and hugged it. 

“Let’s find a restaurant.” 

“I’m on my way to Peg’s.” 

“Are you going out anywhere?” 

“Oh no. We were just going to spend the evening to¬ 
gether.” 

“She won’t mind you being late then. Here we are! 
Come in here and let’s get something to eat.” 

He insisted on having a table for two, and when they 

198 


DIFFERENT GODS 


199 

sat down, facing each other, he said, ‘‘Sheila, how hateful 
to see you so grown-up.’’ 

“Is it?” 

“How dare you grow up I Your hair! Ye gods!” 

“D’you want it hanging over my neck at twenty-five?” 

“Are you twenty-five? What a crime! ” 

“But let me tell you a little secret. I’m nearly just the 
same inside. It’s terrible how young I am inside. Some¬ 
times I feel as though I’m going about on false pretences 
and should be in swaddling clothes.” 

“You’re not engaged or anything, I see.” 

“No. Are you?” 

“No.” 

“What’s West Africa like?” 

A look of terror crossed his face. 

“Don’t talk of it. It’s wrong, Sheila, to send a man 
out there, a man like me, I mean, who loves the town and 
theatre, and music and white women-” 

“Aren’t there any white women?” 

“Not one. Now what are you going to eat?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“That’s good. I haven’t been hungry for years.” 

“What a fib.” 

“It’s true. I hardly ever eat.” 

“How do you keep alive then?” 

He said, “By drinking,” and then flushed. 

“Oh, Gilbert!” 

“What else is there to do? The heat knocks me over. 
And I’ve had malaria most of the time.” 

“Then why stay out there?” 

He didn’t answer her questions, but began to talk rap¬ 
idly of music. He talked of it till they left the restaurant, 
^d when they stood outside in the fresh evening air he 



200 


DIFFERENT GODS 


said, ^‘How good it is to talk of music again with one who 
understands itl The fellows out there are hogs. There’s 
not one of them I can talk music to, and you know what 
that means. It’s nearly as bad as hearing none at all, and 
that—that’s hell.” He stood still on the pavement, think¬ 
ing deeply, his head bent forward. 

She touched his arm. 

^Tet’s go to a concert,” he said, looking up. 

‘‘It’s late.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve been here a month, Sheila, and 
have never once heard music—what we call music.” 

“But why?” 

“I daren’t. I’d almost got used to being without it. 
I didn’t want to get longing again.” 

“Had we better go then?” 

“Yes. ' Sheila, it’s splendid seeing you. What a darling 
kid you were I So young, and yet so interesting and sweet. 
There was never anything of the flapper about you. But 
why did you bring me to Peg?” 

“Why-” 

He interrupted her hurriedly and hailed a taxi. When 
they stepped inside he put his arm round her. 

“Gilbert-” 

“Let me. It’s only me. And I’m going away to¬ 
morrow.” 

He laid his head on her shoulder. 

“Don’t send me away. I feel so good.” 

She let his head stay on her shoulder, and he remained 
still, sighing and sighing as though he were falling asleep, 
and several times he murmured, “I feel so good.” 

When they got into the concert hall and the music 
began he leant back, dreamy with joy, and after a while 
took hold of one of Sheila’s hands and held it between his 




DIFFERENT GODS 


201 


own. He took it so naturally that it was with reluctance 
that she sought to withdraw it. 

He whispered: ^‘Don’t you want me to hold your hand? 
All right then. But the music is so beautiful. IFs too 
beautiful. And I’m hearing it with you, Sheila, who love 
it and understand it as I do. My God! How will I bear 
West Africa again!” 

She put her hand through his arm and took hold of his 
fingers, thinking, ‘^I will tell Philip about it. He won’t 
mind. He wouldn’t like me to hurt Gilbert.” 

So they sat like that, and whenever a passage of poign¬ 
ant sweetness occurred he looked at her, and waited till 
she looked at him, so that they might share the beauty of 
it. He was quite unconscious of the people round about, 
and his mouth looked like a child’s. 

When they got outside he blinked at the noise, but a 
moment later he said, ‘^How splendid cities are! And I’m 
leaving all this to-morrow. Where’s a taxi?” 

^Where are we going?” 

“Anywhere! Let’s have a long ride together.” 

In the taxi Gilbert put his arm round her again and laid 
his head upon her shoulder. 

She was vaguely troubled but didn’t ymnt to repulse 
him. She felt that to do that would be like hitting a 
cripple, so she said, “Poor Gilbert!” 

“I wish I could wipe out the last six years and be with 
you as we are now.” He began to hum dreamily and 
excitedly. “That music’s in my blood. Do you know, 
I can drink with anyone and keep my head, but music 
makes me drunk.” 

“Why do you want to wipe out the last six years?” 

He smiled so dreadfully that she could hardly bear it. 
“If I could wipe out the last six years I could be so happy 


202 DIFFERENT GODS 

at this moment. I could ask you to marry me, and you 
might say Yes.” 

‘^Gilbert!” 

used to love your austere little mouth, but your eyes 
suggested passion, when you were as innocent as a baby. 
It’s so damned difficult to find a woman who is at once 
passionate and faithful and good. Are there any?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“It’s generally the dull women who are faithful, and 
that is mostly because they’re never tempted. Good 
women may suit a man in his domestic mood, but they 
don’t understand the adventure in him, and don’t approve 
of it. Cold, clever women can keep your interest but not 

your love. The women who are all passion-” He 

gave a great shudder. 

“Gilbert, I hardly know this is you talking.” 

“I want you to know me as I am. I was always good 
with you, wasn’t I? I wasn’t the least bit in love with 
you—you were so remote, and young, and unconscious. 
But if any man had said a wrong word of you I’d have 
knocked him down. I was tremendously interested in 
you, but there was a beast in me. What does a beast want 
with a little nun-” 

“Don’t go on like this!” 

He paid no attention to her protest. He felt that his 
tongue, once imloosened, had to riot to freedom. The 
music had intoxicated him, not only with himself but with 
all it suggested, all the allurement of civilization, and the 
need of the white man for his own kindred. 

“A girl like you would have killed the beast in me, or 
else have put it to sleep. Why did I listen to the music, 
since it has reminded me I am a man? If you knew how 
we live in West Africa, how we behave! Yet my black 




DIFFERENT GODS 


203 


woman cried when I came away. I was surprised at that. 
She dressed the kids up and made a fuss. And I was crazy 
with joy at getting away. I was surprised she cried. IVe 
treated her as a slave, not a wife-” 

“A wife?” 

He pulled himself up. ‘What sort of suicide is this?” 

“Suicide?” 

“Aren’t I killing myself in your estimation? The 
women who wouldn’t mind this I don’t tell it to, yet to 
you—Sheila, don’t look so horrified.” 

“I’m not horrified, only—only surprised.” 

“Aren’t I a rotter!” 

“Poor Gilbert!” 

They remained silent then. The taxi crept through the 
streets. 

“What time is it?” she said at length. “Won’t you 
come and see Peg?” 

“No. It’s too late.” 

“I’ll have to go home then.” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell the man to stop at the corner of the road. Grand¬ 
mother would question me for hours if she knew I came 
home with you.” 

“All right.” 

As they approached the road where Sheila lived he said, 
“Good-bye, Sheila. May I kiss you?” 

“If you want to, Gilbert.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.” 

“That settles it then. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, dear, good Gilbert.” 

He flushed swiftly from forehead to neck, tried to 
speak, and failing, drew back into the darkness of the 
taxi. 



CHAPTER XXX 



HAT happened to you last night? I waited 
for ages.” 

‘‘Who do you think I met, Peg?” 


“Don’t know.” 

“Gilbert. He called to me in the street. I was so sur¬ 
prised to see him. He’s still the same, and yet he’s quite 
different.” 

“Most lucid.” 

“I mean he walks in the same way, and smiles in the 
same way, but his expression’s not the same. And he 
talked so strangely. I tried to get him to see you, but he’s 
going back again to-day.” A sudden thought struck 
Sheila. “Have you quarrelled?” 

“Oh no. We had a brief, mad, love affair. And it 
died.” 

“A love affair I With Gilbert? I never suspected I 
And it died? How strange that love can die.” 

“There are so many kinds. Mine always dies.” 

“But Gilbert-” 

“You didn’t guess that women were his weakness, did 
you? I did, at once. That’s the only kind of man I 
attract.” She shrugged her shoulders, smiling crookedly. 
“He hates me now.” 

“He can’t hate you. Peg, after—after loving you.” 

“That’s why he hates me. He did lots of things he 
scorned to do, on my account. I mean, I’d a husband— 


204 



DIFFERENT GODS 


205 


such as he is—and a child. That worried him all the 
time. It didn’t worry me. Then when it was all over he 
blamed me.” 

“Gilbert did?” 

“He didn’t put it into words. And he doesn’t blame me 
consciously, but there are men like that, you know. When 
they’ve sought a woman out as much as she’s sought them, 
they blame her for it, and hate her if, through her, they’ve 
done things they’ve despised.” 

“I can hardly take it all in.” Sheila gazed at Peg in 
wonder. She had grown up with Peg and had thought she 
knew her. Peg had always talked audaciously, but Sheila 
never dreamed she would have a light love affair with any 
man and talk of it so calmly and so casually. Was that 
what Wayfield had meant by dark places? Did he mean 
frailties hidden so deep that they could not be looked 
upon, they had to be revealed? 

Yet, when Peg had known Gilbert, Sammy had once 
been ill and she had been all solicitude. She had looked 
white and terrified though there was no need to fear, the 
doctor said, and had clasped him wildly to her bosom. 
And then she had gone to meet Gilbert to share with him 
a brief, mad, temporary love affair. 

Peg was surveying her thoughtfully. 

“Are you really so surprised, Sheila?” 

“I’m awfully surprised.” 

“I suppose you think I’m horrible.” 

“No. I only think you’re you.” 

“You’re a sweet little humbug.” 

“Why?” 

“If I had put a hypothetical case before you, you’d have 
looked so stern-” 


“But you’re not a hypothetical case.” 



2 o6 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Peg smiled. 

‘‘Are you?” 

Peg only smiled again. 

“Do you know what you most often say,” she asked at 
length. 

“What?” 

“You say, ‘Poor creature F If you ever commit a few 
murders God ought to say on the Judgment Day, ‘Let her 
alone. She said so often: Poor creature!’ ” 

“Peg-” Sheila’s eyes went shy. “What on earth 

are you getting at?” 

“So Gilbert’s gone, has he?” 

“He loathes being out there. Why did he go? It strikes 
me there’s a mystery about it.” 

“It’s striking you very late.” 

“Why?” 

“Gilbert was always silly about women, and spent too 
much on them. Then he used to gamble and turn up late 
at the office, and all the rest of it. When he was mad on 
me he often didn’t go to the office at all-” 

“Why didn’t you make him go?” 

“That’s not me. I was mad on him too.” 

“Yes?” 

“Then-” Peg spoke quietly, “he did something to 

the books.” 

“The books?” 

“The books at the office. The money—he meant to pay 
it back, but—^he gambled again and lost.” 

“Poor Gilbert! I should have known that something 
terrible had happened.” 

“His father stood by him. to a certain extent. I mean 
he moved heaven and earth to put things straight and keep 
him out of prison. Then he got him this post in West 





DIFFERENT GODS 


207 

Africa; and said, ^Go, and don’t let me hear from you 
again.’ ” 

^‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” 

‘‘You weren’t ready to hear it.” 

“It all seems so stupefying and strange to me. It’s like 
telling me that black is white, though I’m not as surprised 
now as I would have been before I met him yesterday. He 
was always so serene and full of music-” 

“Music is more than God to him.” 

“Poor Gilbert!” 

Peg straightened her shoulders. 

“Well, how are you getting on? How’s Philip? How’s 
everybody?” 

“Just the same.” 

“I wish Jinnie hadn’t left. I used to like getting news 
of hery That was the way Peg always alluded to Fanny. 

“Did you?” Peg never understood how little Sheila 
herself liked getting any news at all, and by that means. 

“She’s still doing her best to get him, though. Wouldn’t 
you think she’d give it up after all these years. Mrs. Shaw 
told me that Fanny tells all her friends of Philip’s indiffer¬ 
ence, and that he asked her to leave him alone. Yet she 
keeps on wanting his love.” 

“She wears wonderful clothes,” said Sheila, blushing 
deeply. 

“You’re sorry for her. Mrs. Shaw isn’t. She said that 
years ago, before she met Philip and before she got con¬ 
sumptive, Fanny did her best to get hold of Bobbie Hol- 
linshead, never left him alone practically, followed him 
about, and then when he was madly in love with her she 
turned him down. She’s done the same thing with several 
men. It’s Philip’s indifference that keeps her like this. 



208 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Tell him to make wild love to her and it won’t be long 
before she’ll curl her lips at him.” 

“Don’t.” 

“I was only joking.” 

“I know.” 

“Philip sounds queer, you know, to a woman like me. 
You know if I were a man and in his place I wouldn’t be 
able to withstand Fanny. She has nearly Greek features 
and Bacchante colourifrg. She dresses like a dream, and 
she’s as passionate as the deuce, and yet she might be a 
piece of wood as far as he’s concerned. Now if I were 
him I’d still stick to you, but I couldn’t help philandering 
with Fanny. Could you?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sheila unhappily, trying to change 
the subject but knowing her brain to be dumb. 

How strange men were I 

Willie flashed before her consciousness. She remem¬ 
bered how he had stepped in the kitchen of the farm¬ 
house that evening when Mrs. Turton had gone, his eyes 
shining and his breathing uneven. He had brought a chair 
and sat beside her, his smile dying when he saw the letter 
in her hands. 

She had said: “Mrs. Turton won’t be long. She’s gone 
to Mason’s for butter.” 

He bent towards her, his whole body expressing despair 
and pleading, and reached for her hand. She withdrew 
it quickly and, as though Philip’s letter were his very 
presence, she placed it between them. 

She could hardly bear, then, to look at his face, it was 
so baffled, so desperate, and so grieved, yet she fought 
with her pity for him, remembering Edie and the others. 

“You think I’m bad,” he said. “I’m not bad. And I’m 
not common all through. My father is a gentleman.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


209 


She said: know.’’ 

‘‘You don’t like me. You think I’m bad.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m not bad.” He stood up sharply, then knelt upon 
the floor beside her and laid his head upon her knee. She 
remained still, fighting no longer with her pity, but regret¬ 
ting a feeling of awkwardness. 

“Mrs. Turton will be back soon,” she said at length. 

“No,” he said, and looked up to smile bitterly. “I gave 
her a shilling to go away and keep away.” 

He awaited her contempt, but she only looked at him, 
puckering her brows. 

“I made her swear she wouldn’t tell you that, and I’ve 
told it you myself.” 

“Why did you do that? Why did you give her a shilling 
to keep away?” 

“I wanted to talk to you.” 

She saw his face, but couldn’t understand it, it was so 
humble. And goodness shone upon it like a light. Yet he 
wasn’t good. How could he be good when he was so often 
cruel? 

Sheila felt that the longer she lived, the less she under¬ 
stood. Books talked so much of the changeableness of 
women, yet how extraordinarily men could change. They 
had not only different moods, but different characters. 
She had found it impossible to realize that Willie, plead¬ 
ing and humble and perfectly reverent, could have so 
brutally refused marriage to Edie. And Gilbert, who 
was chivalrous and kind to her, and passionately fond of 
the loftiest music, could make love to Peg behind her 
husband’s back, and live with a black woman whom he 
regarded as a slave. 

She decided to tell Philip all about it, and immediately 
half her bewilderment went. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


S HE lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. Gilbert 
passed through her thoughts, and Peg, and, most 
of all, Fanny. 

Since Jinnie’s sister had left Fanny’s service Sheila had 
heard little about her and she had been glad of that. 
Her love and Philip’s had all the outward and visible 
signs of vulgar intrigue, and of the farcical ^‘human tri¬ 
angle” burlesqued in music halls, and any mention of 
Fanny reminded her of it with terrible force. 

She had only hated Fanny once, and that was for a 
very short time when the wildness of her grief had 
swamped her reason. She passionately desired to be 
happy with Philip, but she wished Fanny could be happy 
too. No one spoke well of her, and Peg could never 
understand why Sheila always pitied her, not knowing 
that Sheila possessed the disquieting gift of being able 
to put herself in the place of another woman so com¬ 
pletely that she seemed to stand within her body and 
look out at the world with her eyes. 

Fanny was pretty, well-dressed, snobbish, jealous, 
tyrannical and cruel. Women resented her overbearing 
ways and cold, grudging, unlovable eyes, but Sheila knew 
she was a creature to be pitied. She knew that Fanny 
was the victim of her own nature, that restlessness pos¬ 
sessed her like a devil, that her continual craving to outdo 
others would never let her have any peace. 

She remembered how she used to dress in transparent 

gowns, waiting for Philip to allure him, how she had 

210 


DIFFERENT GODS 


21 I 


knocked and knocked at his door. That was five years 
ago. Sheila had thought she had settled down long ago 
to dress-rivalry, cards, quarrels with other women, and 
the cultivation of her health. But Peg had said she still 
wanted Philip’s love. 

Those words painted pictures which danced before 
Sheila’s eyes, torturing her. She saw Philip, harassed and 
worried by Fanny for so long, and Fanny, tormented 
and baffled but undeterred, taking rebuffs without flinch¬ 
ing, and asking and asking for love, driven on by her 
invincible persistence. 

Sheila remembered how Philip always met her with a 
smile. She always told him of the tiniest troubles that 
cropped up, and he always listened, soothing her excitabil¬ 
ity with his kind smile and a few sensible affectionate 
words. She had never suspected that his life in the house 
was a series of scenes. She had imagined that his in-door, 
like his out-door, life, was quite detached from Fanny’s. 

Not once had he come to her whining about his troubles, 
or even mentioning them. And he was not the sort of 
man who is only chivalrous towards the woman he loves. 
His chivalry included the whole of womankind. He 
would fear Fanny’s tears and pleadings and reproaches 
to a terrible degree. 

How extraordinary, though, that Fanny should still pur¬ 
sue him. A sudden terror clutched at Sheila’s heart. 
Did Fanny love Philip deeply, as deeply as she herself 
did? She made a few rules, but one of them was that no 
woman should do another an injury, that it was better 
to treat a man badly than another woman. She had 
always scorned women who took a delight in stealing a 
man away from a woman who loved him. But she had 
never believed that Fanny really loved Philip, because 


212 


DIFFERENT GODS 


she had acted so coarsely. She had hunted him, and 
grovelled to him, she did not care for his happiness, only 
for her own. None of that was love. Love, in Sheila’s 
case, had been full of self-sacrifice, self-abnegation, and 
the humblest pride. Fanny had coveted Philip, she 
hadn’t loved him. Her dreadful disease had shown itself 
after she had spurned Bobbie Hollinshead because, for 
some time before meeting Philip, she had led a lonely ex¬ 
istence and, men avoiding her, craved for marriage. Peg 
had said that it was only Philip’s indifference that piqued 
Fanny. Sheila tried to believe that that was true. She 
said it to herself over and over again, but she couldn’t 
keep away the tormenting thought that Fanny must really 
love Philip to have kept on making love to him for so 
many years. She might have tired of other men, but that 
was no reason why she should tire of Philip. She could 
understand any woman loving him for ever, as she herself 
did. 

She had seen Fanny occasionally at a distance during 
the past years and had often wondered at her unhappy 
distracted eyes. 

Sheila sat up with a jerk and got out of bed. She 
turned on the light and got notepaper and a pen. Then 
she began to write to Philip: 

“Dearest,— 

“/ cannot sleep for thinking about Fanny, I have 
practically forgotten her for a long time. She has almost 
ceased to be a person, and I have somehow grown to regard 
her as a name that unaccountably keeps us apart. I have 
told you before how easily I can ignore unpleasantness 
and pretend it isnH there. 

‘^But Peg mentioned her to-day, and I remembered 


DIFFERENT GODS 


213 

again, Philipy I can’t go on like this. I can’t bear it that 
another woman should live miserably on my account. I 
can afford to be generous because I have the best of it. 
You’ve loved me marvellously for five years. If I am 
never loved any more by anyone in the world I shall still 
be rich. I can hardly stop crying to hear myself speaking 
of our love in the past tense. Dearesty I love yoUy I love 
you more than the whole earthy much more than myselfy 
but it is best that we should make an end. Go to Fanny 
and stop her dreadful misery. I daren’t have it on my 
conscience that I am the cause of ity not because I am 
goody but because I am cowardly.” 

She stopped writing, and read over what she had 
.written. ^‘Dearest’’ and love you.” No, all that 

wouldn^t do. As long as she talked like that Philip would 
laugh at her request to make an end. Hadn^t he often 
said, “As long as you love me-” 

She tore up the letter and began again. 

“Dear Philip,— 

“/ think it is best that we should not see each other 
any more. Try and be happy with Fanny.” 

She wondered, then, should she end there. No, she 
would have to write something else, otherwise she would 
cut a pathetic figure. It would sound as though she were 
sending him away to Fanny to leave her in loneliness. 
So she added, very deliberately— 

for me, I shall probably settle down, in the near 
future. I cannot support my present ignominious position 
any longer. 

*^With best best wishes for your future happiness. 

Yours sincerely, “Sheila.” 



214 


DIFFERENT GODS 


Her face was white when she had finished writing, and 
her eyes terrified. She put the letter in an envelope, and 
touching it as though it burnt her, crept back to bed. 

She posted it first thing next morning, and her eyes 
retained the terror of the night before. Life without 
Philip would be darkness. She couldn’t see into it. 

He didn’t reply to her letter for a period that seemed 
interminable but which was really only a week, and 
when she saw his handwriting her eyes went dim. 

He had written: 

‘*Meet me to-morrow evening in the same place, at 
seven. I will wait till you come. 

‘Thilip.” 

She wasn’t able to get out before eight, because Grand¬ 
mother kept her talking. 

She gave him her old smile when she met him, but 
he merely said gravely: ^‘Good evening.” 

She said “Good evening,” hurriedly, and waited. 

He said: “I just want to know what is the real reason 
of your letter. Is it that you have met somebody—you 
think—you can—love?” 

“No.” 

Relief swept over him like a wave. She felt its move¬ 
ment as though it were a tangible thing, and a smile that 
was maternal irradiated her face. 

“You simply wish to be free?” 

“Yes.” 

“Of course I won’t trouble you in any way, or try 
to persuade you to alter your decision.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s quite true that your position is ignominious. I’ve 
felt that to its utmost bitterness ever since the beginning.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


215 


She wanted to cry out that they were talking nonsense, 
that she didn’t mind her position, that she was only trying 
to do the right thing, but something in his quiet face and 
even voice kept her silent. 

^‘But why did you tell me to go back to Fanny?” 

‘‘Only for me she would be happy.” 

“She will never be happy.” 

“If you loved her-” 

“I can never love her. A man can’t love at will. If I 
am never to see you again I won’t make a fuss, but I 
will never go to Fanny.” 

“Does she know about me?” 

“She knows there is some one.” 

“She knew it was me you wanted to marry?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then she must know about me now.” 

Philip did not reply. He remembered an ugly hour 
with Fanny, in which she had shrieked, “You’ve got some 
one else. That girl wouldn’t be such a fool as to ruin 
her chances for you. And you wouldn’t-” 

She had ended up with words that were incredibly 
coarse. She always suspected him of the vilest amours. 
She had admitted to women acquaintances that if she 
had been a man she’d have been a rake. She believed 
that no man was fastidious. She was as different from 
Sheila as yellow is different from white. Sheila’s was 
human passion, spiritual as well as physical. Fanny’s 
was pure animal, and like an animal’s, promiscuous and 
violent. There had been two peccadilloes in her early 
girlhood. So much her mother had owned in her last 
and fatal illness. 

Fanny had watched her mother die, brooding and fierce, 
and from then became more careful than ever of the 




2i6 DIFFERENT pODS 

temperature of each room she entered, looking at the ther¬ 
mometer on the wall as soon as she closed the door. 

“I know you don’t believe I mean what I say,” said 
Sheila, breaking in upon his silence, which confused her. 

“I do believe it. You’re only saying what I’ve dreaded 
to hear all these years.” 

“I can hardly believe myself that I mean it, and yet 
I do. It seems almost laughable that / should send you 
away when I am you. I can’t explain it properly—but 
there’s something within me that can’t bear to think of a 
woman suffering endlessly because of me.” 

“You mustn’t blame yourself. You’ve nothing to blame 
yourself for. I loved you before you ever thought of lov¬ 
ing me. I sought you out, you don’t know how deter¬ 
minedly, and how cautiously-” 

“Cautiously?” 

“Yes. You thought it was friendliness at the beginning. 
But it was love with me from the first moment. If I’d 
told you that, you’d have run away like the wind. There 
was so much of the elf about you. I was afraid of scaring 
you, terribly afraid. When you talked of Beatrice—do 
you remember?—I could have lifted you up in my arms 
with joy at finding you so human. If either of us is to 
blame, it’s me. But a man can’t look into the future. I 
planned everything out so simply: breaking off the engage¬ 
ment with Fanny, a short unpleasantness, and then mar¬ 
riage—with you.” 

Sheila’s heart stirred and her spirit leaped within her. 
It was nobody’s fault, their glorious coming together. It 
was worth a world of bitterness and sorrow, but she was 
going to clear her conscience of Fanny’s misery; she 
would give Philip free permission to go to her, would en- 



DIFFERENT GODS 


217 

courage him to go, and, if he refused, surely she need fear 
Fanny’s restless eyes no longer. 

^‘If Fanny were quite strong,” she said, ^dt wouldn’t 
be so bad, but she’s only one lung. I can’t understand 
what that exactly means, she looks so well when she’s 
out.” 

“She only goes out when she’s well. She spends many 
black days in bed.” 

“Probably through worry. If you loved her-” 

“It’s her will that keeps her alive. It’s the people with¬ 
out an object in life that give in to illness most easily.” 

“She lives in hope that you’ll love her.” 

“That somebody will love her.” 

“That you will love her. And you won’t. Because 
I’m me, I’m glad. Is that wicked?” 

“No. Would you think it cruel of me to be glad if 
you repulsed another man on my account?” 

“Women are nauseated by unwelcome advances.” 

“So are men, terribly nauseated.” He took out a cigar¬ 
ette, closing the case with a snap. “You can call it what 
you like, Sheila, but it is merely this fact, that I am abso¬ 
lutely unable to love Fanny. I am sorry for her. I do 
all I can for her, but I can’t love her. I can’t even like 
her.” 

“How mad this is! Here are we talking as though I 
were angry with you for not loving another woman! I’m 
not. It’s only that I want to feel guiltless.” 

“You are guiltless; I’ve told you that before.” 

“Dearest-” 

“I’m still dearest, then?” 

“Philip, have you ever been in this position, that you 
say the opposite to what you hope and feel, in order to 
be proved wrong?” 




2i8 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘Dften. In argument a man often opposes his own 
views to have them strengthened, and to be reassured that 
they are right.’^ 

‘That’s how it is with me. I wrote you that awful 
letter, loving you. I’ve been persuading you to return to 
Fanny, loving you, loving you. For the first time I had 
doubts as to whether I was good in this matter, or not, 
and I wanted to make sure. I didn’t see it as plainly 
as this when I wrote to you. I felt I ought to send you 
to Fanny, and I meant that you should go. But if you 
had gone-” 

“Yes?” 

“I should have died,” she said simply. 

“Why have we been arguing? Sheila, this week’s been 
hell. I’ve been torturing myself with what I couldn’t 
really believe—that you’d come across a man you thought 
you could love. I decided not to write to you. I’ve always 
sworn to myself that if you wanted to leave me of your 
own account I’d let you go without a word of reproach, 
-as long as it was to a man who could give you what 
I can’t.” 

“Don’t always say that.” 

“Then you mentioned your ignominious position-” 

“I didn’t mean it.” 

“I swore I wouldn’t write till you wrote.” 

“I swore I wouldn’t write either, not out of pride, but 
to be just, and to give Fanny her chance.” 

“It wasn’t pride with me either, it was fear, fear of 
being selfish with you and keeping you from this-” 

“—imaginary man.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you didn’t quite believe in him.” 





different:^ gods 219 

“Not quite, but enough to make me-” he stopped, 

gasping a little. 

She put her hand through his arm, leaning her head 
against him, glad, comforted, and infinitely rested. 

He stood still and enveloped her in his arms with a 
mighty movement. 

“How wicked we’d be to leave each other,” she said 
happily. “God wouldn’t send us together and give us 
the gift of each other and then expect us to throw it 
away.” 

He smiled mournfully at her, and kindly, as he always 
did at any mention of God. 

“You don’t think God bothers about us, do you?” 

“I want you to go on believing that He does.” 

“I do. Won’t you believe it?” 

“I believe in a Cause of Things. Sheila-” he lifted 

her face to kiss it. “The week’s gone like a black dream. 
Do you love me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“But say it.” 

“I love you.” 

“Always?” 

“Always.” 

“I’m a moderate chap. I’ve studied violent people as 
interesting cases, and men who go mad with jealousy as 
victims of nervous disease, but at the smallest thought of 
you in another man’s arms I go mad. I couldn’t stand it, 
Sheila. I don’t know what I’d be capable of doing if I 
had to picture you smiling at another man, looking at him, 
talking to him, snuggling against him-” 

“Like this?” 

“If I had to picture your little gestures, your love ways, 





220 


DIFFERENT GODS 


your funny little thoughts, all being enjoyed by another 

man! Sheila-” 

‘‘Beloved!” 

“I don’t ask you to swear not to send me away if you 

want to-” 

“I’ll never want to.” 

“Please God you won’t. But promise me you’ll never 
put it in writing. Don’t let me dread opening each letter 
you send. Let me be sure when you write you’ll still be 
loving me. I was wanting you so badly when I opened 

your letter; then when I read it-” 

“Don’t think about it now I’m with you. I think I 
must have been possessed. But the thought of Fanny 

wouldn’t leave my brain, and-” 

“I don’t think you’ve been quite normal lately, dear.” 
“I haven’t, Philip, ever since I stayed at Paula’s.” 
“How’s that?” 

“I’ll tell you all about it some time. Not now! I only 
want to think of you now. How lovely it is that we 

needn’t part, that I’m not responsible-” 

He stopped her words with kisses, and she received 
them, eyes closed, quiescent, enraptured, supremely 
content. 









9 ^ 


CHAPTER XXXII 

M eta wrote to Sheila telling her she had re¬ 
turned from London and asking her to have 
tea with her in town. 

‘‘Well?” said Sheila, when they had seated themselves 
at a small table in the cafe. 

“What do you think! I’ve got a school in London.” 
“And you’re going to live there!” 

“Yes. You don’t seem pleased.” 

“Don’t think it cheeky of me, because I haven’t known 
you very long, have I? but I shouldn’t like you to get 
mixed up with the Paula set.” 

“But they’re awfully fascinating in a way.” 

“Only in the way anything queer is fascinating.” 

“But queerness is a change when you’ve been brought 
up amongst Nonconformists all your life. My people are 
awfully conventional and strict, and goody-goody and 
complacent.” 

“That’s horrid, but still you can get away from it.” 
“Can you! Don’t make that mistake!” 

“Well, anyhow it doesn’t affect you-” 

“Doesn’t it just!” 

“Perhaps you’re different then. I can like dull people 
and simple people and mistaken people as long as they’re 
well-intentioned and anxious to be decent. Paula and her 
friends are deliberately queer. They make a show of 
being broad-minded and superior to ordinary women, 

but in reality they’re spiteful and unjust and cruel.” 

221 



222 DIFFERENT GODS 

“All of them aren’t, Sheila. You’re awfully down on 
them.” 

“Perhaps I am. It’s awfully hard for me to be neutral. 
But I can’t stand their hypocrisy. I haven’t yet got 
over their disgust at that poor servant girl.” 

“I went to the office one day.” 

“Did you? What was it like?” 

“Most of them were awfully nice, but really, Sheila, I 
have to admit it to you-” 

“Ahl” said Sheila, smiling wickedly, “out with it.” 

“One of the editresses there is awfully brilliant and has 
got on no end. She came in when I was there, and Paula 
and two girls she’s chummy with were so nice to her, al¬ 
most obsequious, but as soon as she.’d gone-” 

“I’m not surprised.” 

“I don’t mean they were rude or laughed at her like 
common girls-” 

“Oh no, they’d do it quite politely and very languidly, 
and much more effectively than common girls.” 

“They hardly said a whole sentence, and yet they con¬ 
veyed derision.” 

“Another woman there said frankly, T admire her.’ 
She was a Miss Bird, and she had such a homely, kind 
face. Paula’s lot despised her.” 

“Why?” 

“Because she’s ordinary, they say.” 

“Oh,” said Sheila violently, nearly hitting at her cake 
with her fork, “they’re so proud of disliking the ordinary. 
Don’t they realize that really extraordinary people never 
know they are extraordinary, or, if they do, they try to 
hide it?” 

“But-” 

“I know it’s ridiculous of me getting excited about them, 






DIFFERENT GODS 


223 


It isn’t that I mind their thoughts and affectations. Good¬ 
ness me! Who am I to dictate to other people as to what 
they should say and do! It’s their bitterness and sneer¬ 
ing at everything, and pretending that horrid things are 
beautiful, and beautiful things horrid.” 

“They don’t pretend that beautiful things are horrid. 
They adore art-” 

“They talk as though love is horrid; you’ve heard them. 
Paula said definitely that there isn’t a decent man in the 
world.” 

“But-” 

“Yet she makes a great fuss of Wayfield.” 

“Oh, Sheila, that’s spiteful.” 

“No, Meta, I’m not being spiteful. Paula would marry 
Wayfield if he asked her.” 

“You’re wrong there. Paula wouldn’t marry the best 
man living.” 

“She would,” Sheila insisted. 

Meta determinedly shook her head. 

“You see she’s so clever herself that she only concerns 
herself with talented people.” 

“What are poor little Wayfield’s talents?” 

“Well, he’s not ordinary.” 

“You see, there you are!” 

^'‘You talk as though nothing that isn’t ordinary is worth 
admiring.” 

“You know I don’t think that. You couldn’t call 
Florence Nightingale ordinary, and Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning, and Lister, and Barrie, and hosts of others, 
and I admire them all. People haven’t to be extraordinary 
for Paula and the others to admire them; they’ve only to 
be queer. Do you remember when you read out of the 
paper one night about the girl darting across the road to 




224 DIFFERENT GODS 

save a child who was running after a ball and got knocked 
down herself?’^ 

‘‘Yes.” 

“Do you remember Paula saying languidly, ‘What a 
fool! Probably the child wasn’t worth saving. He may 
have been a potential churchwarden,’ and all that sort 
of thing?” 

“She couldn’t have meant it.” 

“Then why is she ashamed of admiring what’s heroic?” 

“I give it up. We’ll never agree on the subject, old 
girl.” 

“When are you going to London?” 

“Quite soon.” 

“I hope you get on well.” 

“And you hope I don’t join Paula’s set,” said Meta 
ruefully. 

“You’re awfully clever at figures, Meta. I couldn’t do, 
in an hour, sums you dash off in five minutes, but you’re 
awfully impressionable.” 

“No, it’s simply that I meet fewer interesting people 
than you do.” 

“How do you know?” 

“You always seem interested.” 

“I generally am, but I don’t think I meet more inter¬ 
esting people than you do. You haven’t said much about 
Cynthia. How is she? I rather liked her.” 

“She’s quite well.” 

The waitress brought them their bill and they left the 
cafe. 

When they parted Sheila said affectionately, “I wish 
you luck, Meta.” 

“Reciprocations. Let me know when you get married.” 

“Married?” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


225 


“Don’t look so surprised.” 

“Who do you think I’d be marrying?” 
“Some one or other, for certain.” 

“I’ll let you know when I do.” 
“Good-bye, old girl.” 

“Good-bye.” 

“Drop me a line now and again.” 
“Right you are I” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 



HERE’S a rumour that there’s going to be 
war.” 

“How ridiculous!” 

“Seriously.” 

“Who between?” 

“The Serbians and the Austrians.” 

“Oh!” 

“You cold-blooded young woman.” 

“Well, I always associate the Serbians with musical 
comedy characters, and with musical comedy music.” 

“Yes, madam?” 

“I’m sure if they went to war they would go into battle 
singing, ^doh—me—soh—doh—I’ll—have—^your—blood,’ 
or something like that. And they would wear tights, and 
red jackets, and brandish tin swords. Now wouldn’t 
they?” 

Philip laughed. 

“I think it’s going to be serious, though,” he said. 
“There are rumours that the trouble may spread to us.” 

“The trouble? What trouble?” 

“War.” 

“War? Philip, don't be ridiculous. Do you know what 
century this is? Do you know that war means killing?” 

“I’ve heard so.” 

“It means death. Oh, it means dreadful things. Eng¬ 
land wouldn’t go to war nowadays.” She broke off, tak¬ 
ing hold of his arm. “Philip, when I was in London, a 
woman came to the flat to say that her servant-girl had 

hanged herself. It was terrible. I tried to pretend that 

226 


DIFFERENT GODS 


227 


‘hanged herself’ was only two words, but I couldn’t help 
seeing the girl before me, hanging by the neck, her mouth 
open-” 

“Don’t talk about it.” 

“Why, talking about it’s the wisest thing I’ve done. I 
haven’t mentioned it till now, and it’s been haunting me, 
at first continually, then occasionally, and now, at odd 
times, at night—and when you talk of obsolete things 
like war. You know, Philip, I do pity those poor women 
that lived in the olden days and had lots of wars-” 

“The days weren’t very olden when we had our last 
war.” 

“Which was that?” 

“The Boer War.” 

“I don’t remember it. Darling, do you remember the 
last time we met?” 

“I do.” 

“Wasn’t it funny? And now it’s all as though it had 
never been. It seems absurd that I should ever have men¬ 
tioned such a thing.” 

“Nerves upset by the poor little servant-girl’s death.” 

“It came upon me at night-” 

“When conditions combine most strongly-” 

“Why do I love a doctor? It seemed so reasonable 
at the time. In fact when I got up to write the letter I 
couldn’t understand why I hadn’t written it ages ago. 
I wrote two letters and they were both so melodramatic, 
yet every word came naturally. I won’t laugh at melo¬ 
dramas any more, because when you feel very strongly 
and very sadly, that’s how you do talk.” 

“Did you write two letters?” 

“I tore up the first one, it wasn’t harsh enough.” 

“Dear, let’s talk of something else.” 






228 DIFFERENT GODS 

''I don’t mind talking of horrid things when they’re 
over.” 

do. I don’t want to think of that ghastly week 
again.” ^ 

‘‘Was it so ghastly, dearest?” 

“I went round under bogey again last Sunday.” 

“You did miss me then, that week?” 

“James has a new mashie, a clinking little thing.” 

She laughed, rubbing her head against him. “I feel so 
happy I Do you know what struck me this morning? 
How grateful I should be for all I’ve got when that poor 
servant-girl-” 

“There you are again.” 

“But I can’t get it out of my mind. How despairing a 
person must be, how hopeless, how lost, to decide quite 
finally that life is no longer worth living; to get the rope, 
and look at it, and still feel sure that death is the only 
thing.” 

“Sheila, darling-” 

“How could a man leave a girl like that?” 

“So that was the story, was it! I guessed as much.” 

“And Inga, whose maid she was, had told her it served 
her right, and had given her notice.” 

“Hm!” Philip’s face went grim. 

“There are lots of women like that,” he said quietly, 
“and the fact always astounds me. I attended a girl the 
other week. She lived with her aunt, and was having her 
first baby. A few hours afterwards the aunt came to me 
looking absolutely stern and indignant, and told me her 
niece had been married only a little over seven months. 
She said she intended to order her out of the house as 
soon as she was fit to stand. I said that when she would 
be fit to stand she wouldn’t be fit to go out of the house. 




DIFFERENT GODS 


229 


She said she knew that, but she wasn’t having a bad 
woman about her. She’d always been honest and God¬ 
fearing, and so on. When she’d finished I said it was a 
seven months’ child, and the old girl was all forgiveness 
then.” 

“Why didn’t you tell her that at first?” 

“The idea didn’t occur to me in time.” 

“Wasn’t it true?” 

“No.” 

Sheila fell into silence, trying to chase away the shy¬ 
ness and jealousy that always assailed her at the thought 
of Philip being brought into such close contact with other 
women. 

“Isn’t it hateful,” she said, “when you feel what your 
thoughts don’t approve of? Why don’t one’s heart and 
mind work together?” 

“Does Sheila really think she feels with her heart?” 

“Of course. I felt something horrid in it just now, 
and my mind said, Tut-tut,’ like an old lady.” 

“But your heart only pumps blood-” 

“Oh, Philip!” said Sheila, disappointed. 

“Then I’m wrong then. What would poetry do without 
hearts? Science is a silly old nuisance, isn’t it?” 

“I should hate to believe my heart was only a blood- 
pumper, because Roger and Beatrice are both tucked up 
in it waiting to wake up.” 

“I said I was wrong, didn’t I?” 

“You know, if there ever should be a war, though I 
don’t believe there can be one these days, I don’t know 
what I’d do, thinking of the soldiers’ poor wives. How 
glad I am you’re not a soldier!” 

“War of course is a terrible thing, yet, d’you know, 
at the mention of it I feel jolly all over for a moment.” 



230 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“Jolly? I feel terrified.” 

“Just for a moment. I feel I want to march with a 
regiment and sing, ^Rule Britannia,’ swinging a sword.” 
He broke off, laughing. 

“You don’t mean that, Philip, because you’d be going 
out to kill.” 

“I’d be killing the enemy.” 

He began to whistle, and Sheila said complacently, 
“Well, thank goodness, the days of swords and wars are 
over.” 

She said the same thing, stupid with fear and surprise, 
when war was declared. 

As though a wand had been lifted, conjuring them into 
existence, marching men filled all the streets. The news¬ 
papers shouted of nothing but battle, and a wicked, leer¬ 
ing, triumphant excitement hummed in the air. 

“Is every one mad?” Sheila said to Peg. “I saw a 
soldier with his wife in a bus and she was crying. Doesn’t 
anyone think of the soldiers’ wives?” 

She was tormented by a thought that continually con¬ 
fronted her, “Supposing Philip were a soldier!” and the 
knowledge that he wasn’t one brought her only temporary 
relief. Her gratitude for his safety was so poignant that 
it resembled agony. 

“How long will it last?” she asked him once. 

“About a year, I think,” he said. “Some say it will 
be over in three months.” 

“I think that, too. It couldn’t last a year. A year is 
three hundred and sixty-five days.” 

“You’re not well. What’s the matter with you?” 

“I worry about you. I keep imagining you’re a soldier.” 

He took out his tobacco pouch, opening it with delibera¬ 
tion and speaking with careful indifference. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


231 


‘‘I may be one if it isn’t over soon.” 

^‘May be what?” she said sharply, 
soldier.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

“They want medical men.” 

“You wouldn’t be fighting then?” She paused, panic- 
stricken. “But there are bombs and things. You could 
get killed all the same.” She added with forced bright¬ 
ness, “So that settles it, doesn’t it?” 

He didn’t reply, and for the rest of their time together 
they talked of things that interested neither of them, in 
order to keep away from any mention of war. 

When she got home she said to her grandmother, “Does 
nobody understand that killing proves nothing?” 

“Until the whole world does there will be always wars. 
If one country were to refuse to fight, the other country 
would annihilate it.” 

“And countries are composed of men and women! 
How strange that men and women should want to anni¬ 
hilate each other.” 

“They don’t want to. They think they ought to.” 

“You don’t look well. Grandmother.” 

“I am tired.” 

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said that.” 

“I’m old.” 

“Won’t you lie down?” 

“No.” 

Sheila picked up her sewing. Grandmother’s needles 
clicked slowly. They had no longer their energetic, rhyth¬ 
mical haste. As she knitted she looked at Sheila, whose 
face was small and white. Her eyes were glittering and 
too wide open. 

“You don’t look well either, child,” said Grandmother. 


232 


DIFFERENT GODS 


“I don’t feel very well.” 

^What’s the matter?” 

“I think it’s the war.” 

“We have no men in it.” 

“Other women have.” 

“You are too soft-hearted. That is unwise. It is 
enough to bear one’s own troubles without taking on 
other people’s.” 

“When I look at the soldiers marching through the 
streets I picture them lying on the battlefield, maimed and 
dead. And their wives and sweethearts at home-” 

“Many of them will not grieve.” 

“No. I suppose there are lots of bad men.” 

“There are,” said Grandmother grimly. 

“I wish there weren’t,” said Sheila. “Wouldn’t it be 
lovely if the world were just as it is, but with no cruelty 
in it.” 

Grandmother stopped knitting. 

“That is what Catherine used to say,” she said, with 
awe. 

She put her knitting down and leant one elbow on the 
table near her. Her wrinkles ran over her face in pat¬ 
terns, and her fiery dark eyes seemed to recede. 

“What was my mother like. Grandmother?” asked 
Sheila suddenly, “and my father? What was your hus¬ 
band like? You know, I can never imagine you with a 
husband.” 

“I have never had one,” said Grandmother. 

“But-” 

“You are Catherine’s grandchild, not mine.” 

“Catherine’s?” Surprise made her body jerk. Then 
a glow spread over her. Yes, she was the child of that 
woman who had murmured, leaning against the wall, 




DIFFERENT GODS 


233 


“Only let me hear his voice.’’ Yes, she was the child of 
Catherine, whose strength was less than the strength of 
love. 

“I have never been married,” said Grandmother, her 
pallor increasing, and her eyes seeming to recede more 
and more. She mumbled her words, and Sheila leant 
forward, her mouth parted, as though she were eager to 
drink them in. 

“Catherine married,” said Grandmother, speaking in 
a monotonous voice and moving her head helplessly, “and 
died when Margaret, her daughter, was born. I brought 
her up. She married against my will. He was a hand¬ 
some singer, and women loved him, and when Peg was 
born Margaret’s body was still covered with the bruises 
he had given her the day before.” 

“Bruises!” said Sheila. 

“She left him two years later, and I took Peg.” 

“Where did she go?” 

“She went to Malta with your father. He was in the 
Navy.” 

1./*. ^ 

“My father!” 

“They went out together in a little boat,” continued 
Grandmother in the same monotonous voice. “A storm 
came and they were both drowned. Then I took you.” 

“Then Peg and I are only half-sisters?” said Sheila. 

Grandmother did not reply. 

“Lie down. Grandmother; you look so tired.” 

Grandmother still did not reply. 

“I’ll bring you a cushion.” 

“Only let me hear his voice,” muttered Grandmother. 

“Poor Catherine,” said Sheila, gazing at her grand¬ 
mother anxiously. 

“It was less hard for her than for me.” 


234 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘^Grandmother- 

“He loved her; he didn’t love me.” 

‘ ‘ Grandmother-’ ’ 

“He was weak and wild and faithless-” 

“Grandmother-” 

Grandmother stood up, staring at Sheila with eyes that 
did not see her. 

She walked across the room, tottering, then fell. 

Sheila saw blood splash on to the floor. She saw her 
grandmother’s once indefatigable body lying helpless and 
still, in an attitude that was strangely undignified. She 
tried to lift her, and failing, ran out to get a doctor. 






CHAPTER XXXIV 


I T is God’s will,” said Augustus. 

^‘Oh, shut up!” said Peg irritably. Her eyes 
were small with crying, and her nerves were 
strained by the endurance of Grandmother’s last hours. 

she could only say, T feel better, or worse,’ or 
something/^ she had said once to Sheila. ‘^But to see 
her lying like a log, not able to speak, or smile, or think. 
Do you think she thinks, Sheila?” 

“I hope not.” 

“Isn’t it awful! Each time I go in to her I feel I want 
to shake the pillows up and ask her how she is, but it 
would be hideous to say a word, wouldn’t it, when she 
can’t answer?” 

“Aren’t her eyes terrible? The way they stare!” 
“Didn’t you see it coming on? Couldn’t this have 
been prevented if we’d taken it in time?” 

“She was just the same till a few minutes before. She 
was awfully pale, but she’s often been pale lately. I 
asked her to lie down, but she wouldn’t. I never sus¬ 
pected she was ill till she began to talk of Catherine, and 
tell me about everything. She looked so funny, and 
spoke as though she didn’t know I was listening.” 

“I don’t suppose she’d have told you if she hadn’t been 
queer.” 

“Don’t you? But I’m glad we know; aren’t you?” 
“Yes. I wonder where my respected father is.” 

“Go and lie down. It’s my turn to sit with her. The 
nurse is going for a walk in ten minutes.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


236 

don’t want to lie down. I’ll come and sit with you.” 

^‘Shall we turn on the light when we go in?” 

‘‘No, it might disturb her.” 

“Darkness might depress her.” 

“Isn’t it hateful,” said Peg miserably, “not knowing 
what she prefers.” 

They went into the bedroom together and sat down 
quietly. They were still sitting there when the doctor 
and the nurse came in. 

“We thought that light might disturb her,” whispered 
Peg, to explain the darkness, which bewildered the doctor 
for a moment. 

Sheila turned on the light, and after a moment the 
doctor said, “You two young ladies had better go down¬ 
stairs for a moment.” 

“How is she?” asked Peg. 

“Relieved,” said the doctor. 

“That sounds hopeful,” said Sheila when they got 
outside the door. 

“She’s been dead an hour or so,” said the doctor to the 
nurse. 

The nurse gave a composed little nod and folded 
Grandmother’s hands across her breast. 

“It is God’s will,” repeated Augustus, looking at his 
wife with pleading. 

“What does He care about a poor old woman! If He’d 
liked her even a little bit He’d have given her a better 
time while she was alive.” 

“Margaret! ” said Augustus unhappily. 

Peg compressed her lips and waited till he went out be¬ 
fore speaking again. 

“I’ve read the letter she left addressed to me.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


237 

‘‘What did she say!^’ asked Sheila, lowering her voice 
unconsciously. 

“Read it.’^ 

Sheila spread out the notepaper, feeling appalled. 
Grandmother had sat down to write those words, had 
held an ordinary pen in her hands, and dipped it in ordi¬ 
nary ink. She may have been aware of some trifling 
human sensation such as the tickling of hair on her neck, 
or a roughness in her throat. Now she was dead. Her 
industrious body was still, her fierce dark eyes were closed 
for ever. But her voice yet spoke in this letter to Peg. 
She began to read it: 

“Dear Peg, 

“Fow will not mind that I have left my small amount 
of money to Sheila, You are married to a well-to-do man. 
God knows what will happen between her and Doctor 
Strongitharm!^ 

Sheila started and went terribly white. 

*^She needs my money more than you. That is why 
she is getting it. If she ever marries I should like her 
to share it with youl^ 

“She knew!” breathed Sheila. 

Peg nodded. 

“Poor old Granny!” she said. 

“And she wasn’t our grandmother!” 

“I’ll never be able to get that into my head.” 

“Neither will I. I won’t try to.” 

She told Philip, as soon as she could, of the dead 
woman’s letter. 

“By Gad! ” he said, and flushed a little. “How remark- 


238 DIFFERENT GODS 

able of her 1 And you were always so terrified of grieving 
her about it.’’ 

used to dream of her anger if she found out.” 
wonder how long she knew?” 

“I don’t know.” 

She sighed deeply. 

“Death appals me. I’m an awful coward. I don’t 
know how I’d have stood Grandmother’s death only for 
the thought of you. It gives me comfort only to touch 
your sleeve. Philip, it’s a terrible thing to love a man 
as I love you.” 

“And to love a woman as I love you.” He turned to 
her with an ineffable gesture. “But it’s glorious, too.” 

“It’s terrible. My need of you is too great. It’s ter¬ 
rible to need a person so when life is uncertain!” She 
walked along, leaning her head on his arm, and sighing 
profoundly and with anguish. “What should I do if you 
were to become ill and I couldn’t see you for a long time? 
I couldn’t do as you do.” 

“No.” He smiled with sweetness. “You couldn’t lie 
under my window, could you?” 

“I wish this war was over. I often talked with Grand¬ 
mother of how we’d celebrate peace. The uncertainty of 
life is terrible. Poor Grandmother 1 How often I wished 
I hadn’t to lie to her! I never dreamt I’d get my wish 
through her death. I’ll be able to meet you now-” 

He interrupted her quickly. 

“Sheila, I’ll have to join up.” 

“Have to?” 

“It’s only my”—he sought for a word, then ended up 
lamely—“my duty.” 

“Duty.” She spoke the word as though it were loath- 



DIFFERENT GODS 


239 

some. ‘‘Why should you go? The war will be over soon. 
Haven’t they doctors in the Regular Army?” 

“I can’t hang about here while other fellows-” 

“Is that all you think of? Yourself and other fellows? 
What about me?” 

‘‘Sheila-” 

She quietened down. “Yes, I’m excited. Forgive me. 
But you frightened me so. You mustn’t talk of going to 
war.” 

“But-” 

She spoke to him humbly, “I ask you, Philip, I plead 
to you, for the sake of all we’ve been to each other, I 
beseech you not to go.” 

“Dearest, it’ll be as hard for me as for you.” His voice 
became rough and violent. “Girl, don’t you know you’re 
part of me?” 

“I beseech you not to go.” 

“And let other fellows- 

“I entreat you, Philip.” 

“Those fellows who have gone already, they have wo¬ 
men too.” 

“Yes. But don’t compare me with them. Some of 
them are heartless, others are bloodthirsty; they want 
to be able to say that their men are killing; they’re like 
the savage women who boast of belonging to the man with 
the most scalps. The majority are patriotic. They are 
willing to offer their men to death for their country’s sake. 
Don’t compare me with them; I can’t reach up to that. 
Accept me as I am. I love you more than any country; 
I don’t only love you, I need you. You are my breath, 

my heart beats-” 

“Sheila, please-” 

“If you were to go, how d’you think I could bear it? 








240 


DIFFERENT GODS 


D’you think I could read the newspaper headlines, and 
the lists of killed and wounded without going mad?” 

“I’m a man, Sheila-” 

“You’re my man-” 

“And my country’s-” 

“Ah!” Her eyes went dark, and her lips twisted into 
a dreadful smile. 

“You know I don’t want to leave you, but I don’t want 
to act the coward either. You know what my dearest 
wish is.” 

“Do I?” 

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’d give my 
right hand if I thought I could spend my life with you. 
But I couldn’t live a.shamed life.” 

“Shamed? Will you feel unashamed knowing me to 
be lost?” She paused, trying to control herself, then stood 
still and kissed him, as though she were laying her sorrow 
upon his lips that he might taste of it. 

He took her in his arms, holding her close, and brush¬ 
ing her kiss aside with kisses that were many and violent 
and adoring. 

“Ask me anything,” he said, “but don’t ask me not to 
be a man. Could you love a shirker and a coward? 
Would you be content to have me safe and dishonour¬ 
able?” 

“I’d be content just to have you.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

“I ask you not to leave me.” 

“You’re upset with Grandmother’s death.” 

“I ask you this one thing, not to join up.” 

He walked along in silence by her side. Rain began 
to fall. It drenched the long grass and dripped from 
the trees. Stray couples sped away for shelter. The sky 





DIFFERENT GODS 


241 

grew black and writhed about as though it were in a fit. 
People indoors drew closer to the fire. 

‘‘I’ve never known you so unreasonable before. I don’t 
want to go because I want to leave you or because I want 
to kill. It’s simply this, I can’t let other men fight while 
I stay at home.” 

“Your work is of value at all times.” 

“Older men can see to that.” When she didn’t answer 
he added, “Campbell’s wife urged him to go.” 

“I’m not arguing. I’m not saying I’m right. I’m not 
saying I am good or courageous. I’m not comparing my¬ 
self with Mrs. Campbell. She is greater than I am. I 
am only asking you not to go.” 

“Only!” 

“I’m not one of those women who can send their men 
out to war, hear of their death, weep alone for awhile, 
then jerk their heads and carry on. I’m not one of those. 
Then accept me as I am. If I were a cripple, would you 
scorn me? You’d feel sorry, wouldn’t you? Be sorry 
for me now.” 

“My God-” 

“I’ve pictured thousands of times how I’d feel if you 
were fighting, how I’d be imagining, each moment, that a 
bullet would be striking you. I’d be thinking of you 
thirsty, or wounded, or dying. I tell you it would drive 
me mad.” 

“I’m not trying to be harsh. Dearest, Beloved One, My 
Own, My Own, but other women bear it, not because they 
want to, but because they have to. Men go out to fight, 
not because they want to, but because they have to. If 
every woman in England talked as you are talking, what 
would happen to the country?” 

“Go then.” 



242 DIFFERENT GODS 

He took hold of her arm, but she spurned him, shud¬ 
dering. 

‘‘Go then. Everything comes to me too late. When 
Grandmother died I thought, ‘Now I need lie no more 
when I go to meet Philip.’ It is true. I need lie to her 
no more, but now I shall meet you no more, no more I ” 

“I’ll come back safe and sound.” 

“Everything comes to me too late!” 

He tried to touch her again. 

“Go,” she said, “and leave me to think of the years 
I’ve given you.” 

“Are you throwing them in my face at last?” 

“Yes, I throw them, each one, in your face.” Then 
she added, “Hating you.” 

He stood still, paused for a moment, then walked away 
from her. 

She heard his footsteps splash over the soaking grass, 
and her heart felt like a stone. She walked towards the 
stump of a tree and sat upon it, staring before her in 
despair and desolation. 

She was there when darkness fell, and did not hear 
Philip’s footsteps when he approached her. 

He removed his wet overcoat to get to his short coat 
which he took off and wrapped round her. He lifted 
her up, and supporting her with his arm, they walked 
in the direction of the village. 

“I don’t hate you,” she said, “I can’t forgive myself 
for saying that. I didn’t mean it.” 

“No,” he said compassionately. 

“I was suffering.” 

“You know I’d rather die than give you a moment’s 
sorrow. I’ve caused you a lot, but that I couldn’t help. 
And—I’m saying this for the first time—my worry has 


DIFFERENT GODS 


243 

been double yours. My responsibility is greater, my need 
is greater-’’ 

“Need?” She smiled disbelievingly. 

“Yes.” 

She interrupted him with a gesture. 

“I won’t add to your worries. Go to the war. I’ll 
hinder you no more. It is written.” 

“If you ask me to stay, I’ll stay.” 

“No, go,” she said, and watched with an anguished 
smile the relief that swept over his face. 

“That’s my own girl.” 

She trembled. 

“I feel so tired. It’s come upon me quite suddenly. 
Is there a seat anywhere?” 

“There’s one under this tree.” 

“Let’s sit down.” 

“We’d better hurry to the village. I’d like to get you 
a little brandy.” 

“Let’s rest awhile.” 

She laid her head on his shoulder, trying to control her 
trembling. 

“Sheila,” he said, afraid, “don’t let me think you’re 
going to take it like this.” 

“I’ll get over it. It’s the shock.” 

“Try and stop trembling, dear.” 

“I’m trying.” 

He put his arms round her, protectively and yearn¬ 
ingly, and held her close to him, essaying to bring still¬ 
ness to her quivering body. 

“It’ll all be over soon. The Germans will soon be run¬ 
ning when we get together. Then I’ll come back 
again- 




244 


DIFFERENT GODS 


She replied to that with a terrible whispered cry, “That 
couldn’t happen to me.” 

“My dearest-” 

“Don’t listen to what I say. My head’s turning round 
like a machine.” He held her head with his hand, touch¬ 
ing her with passionate love. 

“Smile at me, darling. I’ll spend a hellish night if I 
have to leave you like this. Smile at me.” 

She smiled at him in a ghastly fashion. 

He turned his eyes away, whistling soundlessly. 

“I’ll worry you no more. Join up.” 

“Dearest! That’s my good girl! You’ll let me go 
cheerfully, won’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

Her eyes were dry. But a sudden sweat broke out over 
her as though her body were weeping. 



CHAPTER XXXV 


S Sheila was dressing herself she stopped several 

Z-A times to wonder at her own face. She saw no 
i % beauty in it anywhere. Suspense and terror 
had dulled it and distorted it. Her head ached, and her 
mouth was dry even though she continually moistened it. 

The time had come at last. He was going to France. 
He was going where battle was, and murder, and sudden 
death. He was leaving her and she would have to bear 
indefinitely the tortures of her terrified imagination. 

During the dreadful time of waiting she had thought 
a great deal about Grandmother, finding unaccountably 
some sort of comfort in her. In her life they had been 
antagonistic, but now she was dead Sheila felt that the 
old woman had understood her more than she had owned. 

How long had she watched her preparing to meet 
Philip? How long had she known? Why hadn’t she 
spoken? Was she afraid of interfering again in a love 
matter? Catherine had died when her baby was born. 
That was all Grandmother had said. But had she 
watched Catherine, bereft and hopeless, marry a man she 
did not love? Had she watched her bring his child to 
birth, and then, in listlessness, die? 

Did she know all that she had endured since the time 
of Philip’s decision to join up, to this day, the time of his 
departure? Had she met, in death, Catherine and Mar¬ 
garet, Catherine’s child, who was her own mother, and 
Peg’s too? Was God there with them? Perhaps they 

were all chatting together, and perhaps Grandmother was 

245 


DIFFERENT GODS 


246 

feeling sorry for the earth-people whose minds were so 
confused and afraid. Perhaps it was nice to be in Heaven 
if it was all chummy and sweet there. It couldn’t be that 
God was only a Cause, a Thing the human mind could 
not visualize, without form and without mercy. No, he 
was the God of her childhood, the kind, strong, masculine, 
friendly Being, who, if Philip were killed in the war 
would say, “Poor Sheila! Come along! ” Then He would 
send her an illness to remove any shred of reluctance she 
might feel at leaving life, for it is the feeling of well-being 
that makes the thought of death so unwelcome, and she 
would go up to Him, and rest awhile at His feet, and 
lay her head against His knees, and wait for Philip who 
would come to her soon and hold her in his arms for ever. 

She put her hat on and wished she looked better for 
Philip’s sake. She would have liked him to take away 
a pretty impression of her. She hadn’t known till two 
days ago that she could see him off, for Fanny had been 
preparing to go, though Philip had asked her not to. But 
she had taken ill and was now in bed. She often had 
days in bed, Mrs. Shaw told Peg, and she always got up 
again, refreshed once more, ready to go out to little bridge 
parties and quarrel with her last new friend. 

When Sheila approached Philip their eyes met in a 
kiss. 

“How beautiful you look!” he said. “A man could 
never tire of you-” 

“I look awful!” she interrupted tenderly, “I know I do. 
I was looking at myself in the glass and thinking what 
a scarecrow I was.” 

“You’re pale and little-looking and for that I love you 
all the more. You’re my little baby to-day, and for two 
pins I’d carry you to the station.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


247 

should like to be a baby to-day instead of a woman.” 

His voice changed. ^‘Beloved, you’re not going to 
worry, are you?” 

^‘No.” 

‘^And—and you’ll keep true to me.” 

She turned to smile ^t him mournfully, ‘‘What an 
absurd thing to say!” 

“Men always look at eyes like yours.” 

“What does that matter if I don’t look back at them?” 

“I’d no right to say that, had I? But I’m a very 
ordinary man, and I’d like to label you as mine. I 
understand quite well why those chaps in fairy tales put 
their princesses in towers when they went away.” 

“Dearest, how silly you are!” 

“Now which platform?” he said with affected lightness 
as they entered the station. 

Sheila’s .heart crept in her bosom. Which platform? 
He was really going then. Nothing would intervene. 

“Darling!” He held her firmly by the arm, watching 
her frightened face. 

“I’m not worrying a bit. I had a twinge of toothache.” 

They joined the crowd of people waiting for the train, 
By Sheila stood a broad woman with a dingy hat, no 
coat, a tight red blouse and dirty nails. She was talking 
in a loud impudent voice to her husband, who was stand¬ 
ing opposite her, dumb, wet-eyed and longing. 

**Three cJieers for the red, wldtCy and hlue!^ 

she began to sing. “Now Lizzie,” she nudged a woman at 
the other side of her, “join in the chorus.” 

“You’ll be getting locked up,” said the woman good- 
humouredly. 

^‘Write as often as you can/’ said Philip, 


DIFFERENT GODS 


248 

‘^You write, too. You won’t forget, will you? If it’s 
only a line, or one word! Just let me know you’re still 
alive.” The thought struck her then that between the 
writing of a letter and her getting it there was ample time 
for his death, and she blanched suddenly. 

“Sheila, beloved, you’re going to be brave, aren’t you?” 

“It’s this toothache. I must really have it seen to.” 

“Three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” sang the 
woman. 

A wave of cold jealousy swept over Sheila. Why wasn’t 
she like that woman? Why couldn’t she sing and joke 
when her man was going to war? 

“You’ll write, Mrs.,” said the man. 

“I might,” his wife replied, tossing her head, “that is if 
I find a minute or two. Now you go and smash the old 
Kayser’s bloody ’ead.” 

There was a sudden movement among the crowd and 
a sudden pause. The train was in. It was time for the 
men to go. 

Philip bent and kissed Sheila. She was unable to kiss 
him back. Her soul was screaming. She made foolish 
futile movements with her mouth, trying to kiss or speak, 
but could only lean against his arm, voiceless. 

“You won’t worry. Promise me.” 

“No. I won’t worry.” 

“Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye. God be with you. God bless you. God 
keep you-” 

A sharp cry made them turn round. The husband of 
the dirty-nailed woman had put his arms round her to 
kiss her, and she with the tears streaming down her face 
was clasping him round the neck, howling like an animal, 



DIFFERENT GODS 


249 

and moaning hoarsely, from time to time, “Oh, God, look 
after him.” 

The man went white and tried to free himself, but she 
still clung to him. After a while her friend got her away 
and the man walked unsteadily toward the train. 

Philip and Sheila kissed again, and then, praying 
silently, she let him go. 

She prayed when the whistle went, and prayed when 
the train crept out of the station. 

Then she turned to the woman and said, “Never mind.” 

“She’s in the family way with her first,” explained the 
friend. “I suppose that makes her take it badly. She’s 
not up to the mark, you see. Troubles always come at 
once.” 

Sheila did not reply. She looked at the sobbing woman 
and passionately envied her. 


4 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

ALLY’S walking out seriously.” 

‘With Albert?” 

“Oh no. She chucked him because he showed 
no signs of joining up.” 

Sheila flushed. That was what newspapers called the 
right spirit, and Sally, the servant girl, possessed it. 

“Now don’t delude yourself into the belief that you’d 
have been satisfied if Philip had sneaked out of it.” 

“Doctors are needed here.” 

“But not so urgently as out there. That’s what he felt.” 

“Oh yes, I know that. I’m not blaming him for it. 
But all the same, seeing that he could have kept out of it 
honourably-” 

“But in his estimation he couldn’t. Anyhow there’ll be 
conscription before long. What on earth poor old Mrs. 
Seal will do then I don’t know! She’s struggled to bring 
up her two sons ever since their father died, when they 
were two and four. She’s lived for them and thinks of 
nothing else, and now she’s worrying herself to death in 
case they’ll go to France. I said to her, trying the same 
stunt on her as on you, ‘You’d rather they were heroes 
than cowards, wouldn’t you?’ and she simply said, ‘I want 
them to be alive.’ ” 

“Poor thing!” 

“Mrs. Highton’s just the reverse. She said to me, ‘I’ve 
sent my four sons off, and if I had ten more I’d send 
them, too.’ ” 

“There’s something grand in that.” 

“Yes.” 


250 



DIFFERENT GODS 


251 


“It makes my spine go tickly.’’ 

“But you’d rather Philip stayed at home?” said Peg 
mischievously. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t. But it’s awfully hard on a 
woman.” 

“Rotten.” 

“I made it awfully difficult for him. I couldn’t help it. 
Poor Philip! It seems like three years since I saw him 
last, and it’s only three months 1 Is Sally getting married, 
then?” 

“Not just yet. But she’s all for it. You should see 
her -walk down the street with him in his khaki. As for 

her work-” Peg shrugged her shoulders comically— 

“I don’t blame the girl. Fancy having to bother with 
another woman’s children when you’re in love.” 

“It’s really love then?” 

“Sally’s sort. Sally intends to be a wife and mother. 
A man’s merely a means to that end. She wouldn’t have 
any man, mind you. Bless your life, no. Sally can pick 
and choose. But she could be just as happy with one 
man as with another, provided they were equally hard 
working, nice-looking, and only got drunk on Bank Holi¬ 
days and at weddings.” 

“She’s lucky.” 

“She’s a scream. You should have seen her face this 
morning when Augustus was saying that in no walk of 
life, in no sphere, can any woman compete with manP 

“You’re a bit of a beast to Augustus sometimes. Peg.” 

“And isn’t he a beast to me?” 

“Not deliberately. He can’t help his nature.” 

“I’d like to remind you of some of the things you said 
about him before I married him.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


252 

meant them and they’re still true. I was trying to 
dissuade you from having him because you’re so unsuited 
to each other, but since you insisted on having him, why 
blame him for what he can’t help?” 

Sheila smiled affectionately at Peg as she spoke, and 
pleading underlay the reproach her words implied. 

^‘You’d have made a bigger mess of it than I have.” 

‘^I’d never have attempted it. Anyhow I don’t think 
you have made a mess of it, considering. It’s astonish¬ 
ing how smoothly the house runs, seeing-” 

-how incapable we are of understanding each 

other. There’s only one thing I can remember about 
Milton, and that is that he believed that incompatibility 
of temperament, more than adultery, should provide 
grounds for divorce.” 

‘^It must be awful. Peg.” 

^^I can forget it.” 

‘‘Do you think Augustus minds my living here?” 

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Peg indignantly, “and if 
he did it wouldn’t matter.” 

“Perhaps he thought I was only going to stay here 
when Grandmother died, till I found somewhere else.” 

“He thought nothing of the sort.” 

“What a long time ago it seems since he first came upon 
the scene!” 

“What a fool I was. And yet I could have done 
nothing else.” 

“Have you seen Jimmy lately?” 

“No. I haven’t seen him for years. The last time I 
met him—it was accidentally—he wore a gold bracelet. 
That finished me.” 

Sheila laughed. 

“A man with a gold bracelet! He hasn’t worried me 




DIFFERENT GODS 


253 

since, I can tell youl I fell out of love with him at once.” 

^^You don’t mean that?” 

“There’s the bell! It’ll be the post.” 

Sheila sat still, battling with the suffocating breathless¬ 
ness that always attacked her when she expected a letter. 
She never knew what the letter might contain or who 
might have sent it. She got up, her limbs half helpless, 
and went to the door. The letter was from Meta. It 
gave a jolly account of her new school, and was witty in 
places, but Sheila could not smile. 

When she returned to the room. Peg said quietly, 
glancing at her grey little face, “You know, Sheila, you’ll 
die if you go on like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“Getting so frightened and worried.” 

“I’m neither frightened nor worried,” said Sheila, her 
white lips stretching into the semblance of a smile, and 
forcing lightness into her voice. 

“You are. You spend your days waiting for the post 
If you don’t get a letter you worry, and if you do get one 
you wonder what bad news the next one will contain. 
You ought to get something to do, something that will 
engross you.” 

“I’d like to find something like that.” 

“Why don’t you start practising again? You used to 
enjoy overcoming those awful scales and arpeggios.” 

“They don’t interest me, now I can do them easily.” 

“Buy some new music, hard stuff that’ll force you to 
work.” 

“Don’t think me silly. Peg, but since Philip has gone to 
France I can’t bear music. It upsets me unless it’s gay 
and flippant, and then it doesn’t interest me at all. It 
affects me neither way. But good music reminds me-” 



254 


DIFFERENT GODS 


She broke off, realizing that she was drifting into other 
confessions, that she no longer dared to look at sunsets 
or at anything that was poignantly beautiful; that she 
feared to read poetry; that everything beyond the com¬ 
monplace seized her by the throat and reminded her that 
Philip was hourly risking death. 

^‘If I lived in the olden days,” she said, trying to be 
conversational, ‘‘I might have been accused of being 
possessed of a devil. I remember Grandmother telling me 
that her mother knew a woman who, when her husband 
and two children died suddenly, couldn’t bear to hear 
the music in church. I suppose it made her feel as I feel. 
So she stayed home on Sundays and feast-days, and people 
accused her of having a devil.” 

‘‘Silly fools!” 

“Isn’t ignorance cruel? The priest sprinkled her with 
holy water and the children rushed past the house with 
their fingers crossed. Poor woman! The organ, you 
know, is the worst of all instruments for making you 
feel—making you feel-” 

. She broke off, afraid of herself. “I’d like to get some¬ 
thing to do,” she said. 

“Work’s so hateful,” said Peg. 

“Worry is worse.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. But what do you propose doing!” 

“I don’t know. I’ll look in the advertisements.” 



CHAPTER XXXVII 


P EG developed a persistent cold just at the time 
when Sammy was recovering from a serious 
attack of bronchitis. 

^‘The doctor’s ordered him to the country,” she said 
miserably. ^Tsn’t it sickening! I want the child to go 
of course, he looks awfully seedy, but you know how I 
loathe being far from a town.” 

^‘Shali I take him?” 

“Would you?” Peg ejaculated with delight. “That 
would be lovely. I’ll talk to Augustus about it. That 
would be lovely.” She became immediately animated. 
“You don’t know how you’ve relieved me. It’s awfully 

good of you. I’ll buy you-” 

“Don’t be silly. I don’t want anything. I haven’t your 

extraordinary hatred of the country. In fact-” 

“I loathe it. I’m quite certain that if I were boxed 
up in it for life, I’d go stark staring mad.” 

“How soon are we to go?” 

“As soon as you like.” 

“I’ll write to Mrs. Turton then. Gaston’s an awfully 
healthy place.” 

“But weren’t you rather miserable there the last time?” 
“I’m more miserable here.” She checked herself, then 
added quietly, “Do you remember when you said you’d 
have to marry Augustus just because you couldn’t bear 
being reminded by the usual things? I couldn’t under¬ 
stand you at the time, but it’s like that with me now.” 
“And to think he wasn’t worth it?” 

255 




DIFFERENT GODS 


.256 

‘‘Who?” asked Sheila quickly. 

“Oh, not your Philip! Jimmy.” 

“He was weak.” 

“Weakness is worse than wickedness. You can hate 
a wicked person, but a weak one can be so well-meaning 
and so cruel.” 

“Not intentionally.” 

“No, but that doesn’t take the cruelty away.” She 
lighted a cigarette, contemptuously shrugging her shoul¬ 
ders. “I’ve got a new hat.” 

“Have you?” asked Sheila, simulating interest. 
“What’s it like?” 

“Dead white. It makes me look quite green, but I 
wear it.” 

“But why?” 

“I took a fancy to it. It makes me wretched if I take 
a fancy to anything and I can’t get it. I’ll be giving it to 
Sally, I suppose, in a few weeks. Her skin can stand 
anything.” 

Sheila suddenly thought of Fanny. It made her 
wretched, too, if she couldn’t get what she fancied. 

Philip had once said to her: “Supposing I could give 
you love for the asking, what good would it be, seeing that 
you had to ask for it, and that it didn’t voluntarily come 
to you?” and Fanny had replied simply, “I don’t mind 
about that as long as you give it me.” And when he had 
said, trying for the hundredth time to settle matters be¬ 
tween them, “But don’t you see that the spirit can’t love 
at will?” she had answered, simply again, “But what has 
the spirit to do with it?” 

She would have been content with mere kisses and em¬ 
braces, it wasn’t necessary that they should be the ex¬ 
pression of love. In her opinion they were love. Sheila 


DIFFERENT GODS 


257f 

couldn’t understand why Fanny didn’t realize that it was 
far better to be parted from a man and desired, than 
pressed close to his side against his will. 

But though she couldn’t understand Fanny she pitied 
her, and often said to God in her prayers, ^‘Don’t let 
Fanny suffer, but don’t expect me to ask You to let 
Philip love her. That would stop her suffering, I know, 
but it would increase mine till I couldn’t bear it. Ought 
I to ask You to let him love her? I can’t, I can’t. Don’t 
expect it of me. You are God and Almighty, stop her 
suffering another way!” Many a time when she pic¬ 
tured the battlefields she would think, ^Tanny is picturing 
it too, like this. However strange her love is, it is love 
of a sort, and it will torture her, as it tortures me, to think 
of him in danger. I wonder if she has gone thin like me, 
and pale and tired?” 

She reluctantly asked Peg if she had heard of Fanny 
lately. 

“Yes,” said Peg, “she’s looking splendid.” 

“Splendid?” 

“Yes, she’s never been better. How she could deceive 
those doctors like that!” 

“She didn’t deceive them. I’ve heard of several people 
living for a long time with only one lung.” 

“But that deathbed affair-” 

“It was genuine.” 

“H’m!” 

“She isn’t the only one who’s made an extraordinary 
recovery.” 

“Well, her recovery is certainly extraordinary. Mrs. 
Evans says she’s never looked better- 

“That colour is part of her illness.” 

“I know that, but she’s having a good time and getting 




258 DIFFERENT GODS 

lots of her clothes-’’ She paused, seeing Shellacs as¬ 

tounded face. ^‘Don’t you see,” she continued half im¬ 
patiently, ^‘that while Philip was about she was con¬ 
tinually hoping for him and continually being disap¬ 
pointed. She got no rest. But now he’s out there and 

might be killed any time-” She caught herself up, 

aghast, and went on rapidly. ^‘I mean that with her it’s 
only the actual presence of a man that counts. She must 
have an actual man. Philip being away—well, there are 
others.” 

don’t believe that,” said Sheila, quietly. “In her 
own way she loves him. She couldn’t go about having 
a good time when—when—he’s in danger.” 

“We’ll agree to differ about that. Of course she isn’t 
normally healthy. When, for instance, she appears in 
the evening looking radiant and bright, she’s been in bed 
since seven the evening before, and she’ll be in bed a day 
afterwards, recuperating. She spends her time getting 
fit for enjoyment and then recuperating. Why on earth 
she didn’t shuffle off this mortal coil straight off instead 
of-” 

“Don’t,” cried Sheila entreatingly. 

“Oh, rubbish 1” 

“I’ll write to Mrs. Turton. I hope she can take us.” 

“You’d be a godsend if you’d take Sammy away for 
me.” 

“I want to take him.” 

Mrs. Turton replied that she would be very pleased to 
make Sheila comfortable and also the little boy. She 
described the weather and ended the letter with: ^‘Hoping 
this finds you well as it leaves me at present and oblidge 
your respectful, Mrs. Turton!* 

Sheila and Sammy arrived at Gaston on a mellow 





DIFFERENT GODS 


259 

golden day. Mrs. Turton hadn’t changed a bit. Her eyes 
ran rapidly over Sheila. 

^‘You want feeding up,” she said cheerfully. 

^‘Yes, there have been so many colds about.” 

Mrs. Turton nodded her head affirmatively, but gave 
Sheila a cold scrutiny. 

Sammy was put to bed early as he was tired with 
travelling. Sheila was tired, too, so didn’t go out for a 
walk. She sat by the fire, for the evening was chilly. It 
was one of those mischievous fires, with tiny flames like 
elves leaping and hiding themselves suddenly. The red 
coals blazed. 

Mrs. Turton made tea and sat at the other side of the 
fire. 

^^What’s all the news?” asked Sheila. 

Mrs. Turton brightened. 

“Let me see. How long is it since you were here 
before?” 

She reckoned up the time on her fingers. “Oh, lots has 
happened since then. Did you know Edie was married?” 

“No! Who to?” 

“The gentleman she kept house for. He took ill, and 
Edie had to nurse him. When he got better he offered 
marriage to Edie for the sake of her good name.” She 
laughed maliciously. “That made us all laugh. Edie's 
good name and her with a love-child! She’s quite the 
lady now. Wears a silk dress on Sundays and has 
three pairs of best boots. Funny how life goes round, 
isn’t it?’^ 

“Very!” 

“The boy’s the image of Willie more than ever, and 
with just his ways. Willie’s gone to the war, you know.” 

“Has he?” 


26 o 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^‘Yes. He told me he was going to get to be an officer 
and mix with the gentlemen, but he’s only a sergeant so 
far. He was wild to get away. Lots of his girls cried 
when he went.” 

^‘Cried?” 

‘‘Some of them wrote to him loving, and said they hoped 
he wouldn’t be killed. He tore up the letters and laughed. 
‘I’m going to marry a lady,’ he said. “ ‘Talking’s easier 
than doing,’ I said to him. 

“He laughed again, his eyes all shining and bright, and 
said, rubbing his fingers on my cheek as though I was a 
sixteen-year-old, ‘she’s going to have long white fingers,’ 
he said, ‘and a proud face.’ ” 

“How’s Mrs. Caine?” 

“She’s dead. She died having another baby. James 
said it must have been a punishment on her.” 

“On her?” said Sheila with sarcasm. 

“He’s religious,” said Mrs. Turton leniently, “and 
religious folk are given to blaming.” 

“Nothing seems changed here,” murmured Sheila, 
looking through the curtained window into the darkness. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Turton in surprise. “I shouldn’t say 
that. We’ve had a lot of change here. There were 
three babies all born the first day of the first week in 
May, Mrs. Cell’s, Mrs. Thomas’, and Mrs. Gibson’s. We 
thought it’d mean a good harvest, but it was a poor year. 
I don’t know what it meant, I’m sure. One of the babies 
died through choking.” 

“What an awful thing!” 

“It’s the first baby I’ve heard of in my lifetime died of 
choking. The mother was worn out letting in the visitors 
who wanted to have a look at the corpse.” 

“How horrible of them!” 


DIFFERENT GODS 261 

“There was a man Clegg died a mile or two away, and 
since then he’s been seen.” 

“Seen?” 

“Walking.” 

“A ghost?” 

“Yes, at about two in the morning he opens the door, 
though it’s been locked tight, and goes to his wife’s bed¬ 
side. She always knows when he’s coming because the 
air goes icy cold. He comes and stands over her and she 
could put her hand through him if she liked.” 

“Oh, don’t I” 

“Don’t you believe in ghosts?” 

“No, but I’m frightened of them. My grandmother be¬ 
lieved in them.” She paused. “I couldn’t bear to think 
of people creeping back here watching their flesh and 
blood friends and not able to join in with what they’re do¬ 
ing. It’s so much sweeter to think that once you’ve left 
the earth you’re somewhere safe.” She paused again, 
thoughtfully. Mrs. Turton made a clicking noise of 
assent. “It must feel so lonely to be a ghost outside a 
door. I don’t think God would be so cruel as to allow it.” 
She smiled at a sudden fancy. “Now you, Mrs. Turton, 
if you were to come back and you heard the tinkle of cups 
and saucers, wouldn’t you want to sit down and have 
a cup of tea?” 

“I would that!” said Mrs. Turton heartily. 

“But if you were in Paradise, or wherever it is we go, 
you’d forget all about it.” 

“I’m not sure that I would,” said Mrs. Turton face¬ 
tiously. 

Before going to bed Sheila went to look at Sammy. 
He was sound asleep in a dignified position. Repose 
accentuated his resemblance to Augustus. He seemed to 


262 


DIFFERENT GODS 


possess nothing of Peg. There was something wistful 
about him, and sad. 

As she undressed she saw old Bob’s white tombstone 
through the open window. It made her feel nervous. She 
was afraid that his ghost might peer over it. She was 
angry with herself for being afraid, because she didn’t 
believe there were ghosts, and even if there were any she 
was sure they wouldn’t do anything so ridiculous as to 
peer over their own gravestones. She wondered what it 
was that makes one fear what one doesn’t believe in; what 
faculty is it that, at times, blots out reason. She kept tell¬ 
ing herself severely that there was no reason at all why 
old Bob’s ghost should look at her, but she was frightened 
all the same and undressed with her eyes closed. 

‘‘If you hadn’t been talking about ghosts, you wouldn’t 
feel like this. How stupid to let a silly conversation 
upset you,” she said to herself scoldingly. 

But her advice availed nothing. She hadn’t the cour¬ 
age to say her prayers by her bedside, and when she got 
into bed she could hear the thumping of her heart. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


T he next morning she laughed at herself for 
having been afraid the night before. It is 
easy to be brave in daylight, or in the lighted 
noisy night-time of the town, but the whispering black¬ 
ness of the country-side and its vast quietness bring to 
the mind the disturbing fact of mortality. 

It was good to come down to breakfast and see the 
friendly kitchen fire, hear the tinkle of the breakfast-cups, 
and stand for a moment at the open door, breathing the 
lovely air. 

She devoted herself to Sammy for several days. His 
health improved to an amazing degree. He ate vora¬ 
ciously and was so energetic that, when evening came, 
Sheila was tired out with keeping up with him. 

She was glad when he made friends with little Billy 
Caine, a son of the local preacher and the woman who 
had died. He was a healthy, handsome, mischievous little 
animal with sleepy eyes and glistening white teeth. 

He told Sammy his father preached, and Sammy said 
that his father did too. That established between them a 
sort of mutual approval. Sammy, who was snobbish like 
most children, despised Billy’s rough boots and clumsily- 
patched clothes, and the tiny cottage he lived in. Billy 
despised Sammy’s white skin and his awkwardness at 
rough-and-tumble games. So, on the whole, they felt they 
were equal. 

Sheila accompanied them to the mountain-side one 
afternoon with a writing-pad and a book. She sat down 

and read while they played, but they became so boisterous 

263 


DIFFERENT GODS 


264 

and rough that she several times had to warn them that 
they would hurt themselves if they weren’t careful. 
Sammy was temporarily reckless with excitement and 
rolled down the mountain-side shouting. He was anxious 
to obtain the approbation of Billy, who was so hardy that 
no form of activity ever excited him. 

^‘You must stop this game,” said Sheila after a time 
in so firm a tone that the two boys became quite still. 
‘‘You’ll be bumping against one of these big sharp stones 
or falling into the pool.” Anxiety made her peremptory. 
“You’re to play something different, at once.” 

They didn’t reply, but looked at each other furtively. 
Then they whispered a little and quietly stood up. They 
walked away, and Sheila heard Billy whisper cautiously, 
“We’ll play over there, then she won’t see us. Women 
are always like that. If you listened to them you’d never 
get any fun.” 

“No,” agreed Sammy. 

“Mother used to tell us never to stand on our heads. 
We said we wouldn’t, but we always did.” 

“Lots of boys in my school do that.” 

“Stand on their heads?” 

“No, say they won’t do things, and do them.” 

Billy nodded approval. 

“I wouldn’t like to be a lady,” said Sammy. 

“Pf,” said Billy with such vehemence that speech was 
unnecessary. He turned round to see what Sheila was 
doing, and met her eyes. “We’re going round the corner,” 
he said with a flashing, charming smile, “it’s a nicer place 
for playing.” 

Sheila didn’t reply. She watched the two boys move 
away, their walk and gestures so masculine even in their 
childhood. Their aggressively masculine attitude of mind 
impressed her too, she hadn’t encountered it before, not 


DIFFERENT GODS 


265 

in so violent a form. Sammy, of course, had often said, 
“When I’m a man,” and once he had said, “You’re only a 
lady. When I grow up I’m going to be a manJ* But she 
hadn’t guessed at his secret contempt of women. She 
wondered whether all boys possessed it, whether boyhood 
was a stage comparable with the racial boyhood of man¬ 
kind, when man was openly, not secretly, contemptuous 
of women. Did this contempt become in later ages, as in 
later boyhood, the respectful compassion called chivalry? 
Nice men don’t despise women for their physical in¬ 
feriority; they love them for it. And with men who are 
less than nice, if there is any contempt at all, it is kindly 
contempt. 

She checked a desire to get up and see what the boys 
were doing and warn them to be careful. Mothers were 
always saying to boys, “Don’t do this, and promise you 
won’t do that.” She sympathized with the mothers en¬ 
tirely. She understood their urgent fear of danger, their 
desire to protect and guard, but their forbidding was evi¬ 
dently all useless, and it only led to disobedience and 
deceit. 

How terrible it would be if Roger ever deceived her! 
She would have to be careful to encourage him to play 
football, and cricket, and rough games, and all the time 
she would be fearing accidents. But she wouldn’t have 
to betray that. 

She opened her writing-pad to write to Philip, then 
paused. 

Supposing Philip were—her thoughts wouldn’t utter 
the word—and Roger were never born! Panic seized 
her. Her memory caught at words she had learnt long 
ago. “If you ask anything in My Name it shall be given 
unto you.” So she prayed for Philip’s safety, adding 
feverishly, “In the name of Jesus Christ.” Then some- 


266 


DIFFERENT GODS 


thing within her said, 'That’s slavish and superstitious. 
You don’t approve of that really.” But still her lips re¬ 
peated, "In the name of Jesus Christ.” 

Then she thought, "If that were true, all women would 
say it, and no men at all would be killed, when of course 
men have to be killed in war.” 

She looked up at the sky and wished, as she used to 
wish in her childhood, that she could see God’s face in it, 
that he would stretch down His hand for her to take hold 
of and lay against her cheek. 

She sat till tea-time, her chin cupped in her hands, 
thinking and dreaming. Then she wrote to Philip with 
such tender passion and with such spiritual yearning, that 
when he read the letter he wrote back, "I tore it up in 
tiny .shreds so that no eyes but mine should ever look 
upon it. . . 

The boys chattered together as she took them home. 
Billy branched off at the corner to give a message to a 
farmer from his father. 

"Are you glad you’re a boy, Sammy?” asked Sheila. 

"Yes.” 

"Why?” 

"OhI” said Sammy, puckering his forehead. "They’re 
bigger than women, and they can learn to shoot—an’—an’ 
—they play football and cricket, an’—an’—ladies wear 
dresses and take little steps—an’—an’—don’t fight in 

wars or make factories-” He paused, displeased at 

being asked a question he couldn’t adequately answer. 
"Of course, you and mother are different-” 

"Are we? Why?” 

He didn’t reply, but repeated reproachfully, "You and 
mother are different.” 

Sheila told Mrs. Turton over supper about the boys’ 
conversation. 




DIFFERENT GODS 


267 

“That^s men all over/^ she said good-humouredly; 
“women’s not up to much, to their thinking, except the 
ones they’re fond of.” 

“All men don’t think that.” 

“They do in these parts and, what’s more, they don’t 
keep fond of the ones they’re fond of very long, either.” 

“Not really!” said Sheila wide-eyed, experiencing the 
little pain that always passed through her when she was 
confronted with a fact that clashed with her conception 
of it. 

“Oh yes! What’s the harm? It’s the same pretty 
much with the women. Loving’s for young people. 
When you’re married and a child comes every year, and 
you’ve broken nights with teething and sickness, and days 
full up with work, and nursing, and extra washing, and 
no room for anything—^you’ve no time for loving, and no 
wish neither. You put all your love into your babies. I 
know I did.” 

“How are your children getting on?” 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Turton, her face softening. 
“But I wish Maud would marry and settle down. That’s 
her with the chiffon round her shoulders.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“She’s going with a very swell young gentleman, she 
wrote last week. He carries kid gloves and a walking 
stick on Sundays.” She sighed. “It’s hard when your 
children grow up and leave you.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, “but it would be so much worse if 
you had no children at all.” 

She received a long letter from Peg next day. 

“Dear Sheila,— 

^^How^s the nipper? Still blooming? You angel for 
putting up with him like this. Vve bought you two pairs 


268 DIFFERENT GODS 

of silk stockings as a mark of my intence (is it a or an 
^s^?) gratitude. 

^^Here^s news for you! I met Gilbert in town yester¬ 
day. Isn’t war-time funny? 

*dle crossed over on impulse, and after a little chat we 
had tea at Fuller’s. He’s come over to join up. Men are 
splendid, I think. He could quite easily have remained 
quiet in that hole of a West Africa, but he’s eager to fight. 
He looks awfully thin and yellow, and walks like an old 
man. He was curious about you but I told him nothing. 
He sends you his love. He’s going off to Aldershot 
to-morrow. 

^More news! I think I’ve got a job for you. At least 
Augustus has. An invalid woman in the congregation 
wants a secretary for her husband. She’s anxious to give 
you a trial, though she’d been told you’re inexperienced, 
because you’re the sister of the wife of a clergyman. Isn’t 
it a lark! As though that’s anything to go by. Methinks 
her husband must be somewhat gay as she wanteth a 
staid and seemly female. 

*‘The present secretary’s going in three months so 
you’ve three months in which to learn shorthand and type¬ 
writing. Salary, three quid a week to start with. 

*Mrs. Henry — she’s the invalid woman I’m talking 
about—is a new-comer at the church. She sits in a bath- 
chair in the middle aisle, and closes her eyes over the 
plaintive passages in the anthems. 

^^Tell Sammy to be a good boy, and give him my love. 

Peg. 

^‘P.S. — I’m sending you a large box of chocolates to¬ 
morrow. I know the awful bulls’-eye affairs they have 
in places like Cast on. 

P.SS. — I’ve given the white hat to Sally. She looks a 
dream in it. I’m afraid she’s going to get married soon. 
Isn’t it q nuisance? Yet here I am hurrying matters on 


DIFFERENT GODS 269 

by dressing her up and driving the poor young man to 
desperation. 

^Write soony 

‘There’s a young woman in the next village,” said 
Mrs. Turton, coming in to put coal on the fire, “and her 
young man’s got killed in the war.” 

“Already?” breathed Sheila. 

“She went nearly mad at first, but now she’s courting 
another young fellow who’s got something wrong with 
his toes and couldn’t join up if he wanted to, and she’s 
picking up again fine.” 

“Is she?” said Sheila, infinitely puzzled, and patiently 
trying to understand. 

“She had her wedding things all ready for the first one 
so they’ll come in again. She’s making baby things now.” 
Mrs. Turton laughed. “ ‘Aren’t you a bit previous, Nell?’ 
I said to her. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m fond of sewing, and 
what else can you do when the evenings draw in? And 
I’ve got all my own clothes ready, and it’ll save me trouble 
later on when I’ll have more to do.’ ” 

Sheila didn’t reply. It was hard enough to understand 
a girl, so soon after the death of one man, getting ready 
to marry another, but it was absolutely impossible to 
understand her willingness to consider having the other 
man’s child. 

As she lay in bed she tried to puzzle the matter out, 
and she thought of Mrs. Henry and the secretaryship. 
She didn’t care how hard she worked to learn shorthand 
and typewriting. She hoped the job would be difficult so 
that it would engross her attention. Mr. Henry would 
be a weak, nondescript person. If he weren’t he wouldn’t 
allow his wife to choose his secretaries for him. But she 
didn’t mind what he was like, she only wanted to work 
and drive out the anxiety that was consuming her. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


iHE weather became so cold that it was im¬ 
possible to sit out of doors even when warmly 
clothed. And as Sheila, enervated with worry, 
was unable to take very long walks, she spent a great 
deal of her time indoors. 

The coming of the postman was an event, and Sheila 
awaited him eagerly even when she didn’t expect a letter 
from Philip. She began to understand why uneducated 
country people pay so much attention to trifling happen¬ 
ings, they have little else to engross their attention, espe¬ 
cially in winter when early darkness and bad weather 
force them to remain indoors most of the time. 

When the postman brought a letter from Meta she 
was inordinately glad to find it was a long one, and read 
it over several times. 

The observant Mrs. Turton said significantly: “That 
letter’s from a favourite of yours, I see.” 

Tt’s from a girl-friend in London,” said Sheila. 

^Oh,” said Mrs. Turton, with disappointment. 




lit 


“Dear Sheila,” [wrote Meta],— 

“/’w an awful pig for not writing to you sooner, but 
Vve been so busy. Ifs no joke settling down in a new 
school and getting letters from your mother telling you 
you^ve made a great mistake going away, and if anything 
happens to come back at once, and so on, and so on. 

*‘Of course ifs lovely of mother to worry about me, but 

when you're feeling pretty shaky yourselfj and not used 

270 



DIFFERENT GODS 


271 


to living away from the family, even if it is an uncon¬ 
genial family, hints at some vague calamity arenH exactly 
encouraging, 

*What an awful letter! Vve fust read it over and it 
seems all mixed up. But you understand what Vm 
getting at, donH you? 

''Inga and Ray have gone to New York. I donH see 
very much of Paula and Cynthia, but Vve chummed up 
with a girl from the same office. She edits a little paper 
too, hut she’s frightfully keen on it. She’s pretty, tall, 
fair and fond of fun, and awfully clever. She has a most 
adorable brother, but, as usual, he doesn’t take the slight¬ 
est notice of me. Her name’s Maisie Hanson, and the 
brother’s name’s Maynard. They’re twins. 

"I went with Maisie to a little party and met some 
topping women. One keeps her paralysed husband by 
writing domestic articles, another provides for her entire 
family, seemingly, by making little sketches for papers, 
and Alice McKeown was there. Have you seen her 
articles in the daily papers? They’re so strong and bril¬ 
liant, yet she’s the tiniest thing and crazy on crochet. 
I was so surprised. None of them are a bit queer like 
Paula. 

"By the way. I’m not too friendly with her as her 
manner to me is openly cool, but I always chat to Cynthia 
when I run up against her. I think she’d be an awful 
dear, left to herself. 

"Maynard Hanson isn’t good-looking or anything, but 
he’s so attractive and witty. 

"Write at once and tell me all the news. I’m sending 
this to Peg’s address as I don’t exactly know where 
you are at present. 

"It has just occurred to me that I haven’t written a 


DIFFERENT GODS 


272 

vjord about school. There isnH much to say about it. 
ITs merely the same old thing. 

^T’m frightfully interested in Maisie^s set. I thought 
Vd be frightened of them at first, so many of them being 
journalists, but they arenH a bit frightening. Nearly all 
of them make their own undies and theyWe awfully fond 
of ordinary things. Maisie says that the secret of being 
a successful journalist is being intensely interested in 
ordinary things. She says that thaVs why Paula will 
never make good. I believe she^s still friendly with 
Wayfield. 

^^Pve a new blue frock. I bought a pair of new shoes 
too. They sent me the wrong pair and Vd such a fuss 
getting them changed. Do you know any cure for falling 
hair? Miners coming out dreadfully. Maynard told 
Maisie he thought Vd very pretty hair! The first time 
Vve heard it! 

^^DonH forget to write soon, Vve written yards. 

“Meta/' 

“P. 5 . —Do you think there^s anything in dreams? I 
dreamt I was getting married in a church to a black man 
with red hairJ* 

“I’ve had many a letter sent me,” said Mrs. Turton 
proudly over supper, “with me being away as a girl and 
my children all in different parts. Mrs. Cell, now, has 
never had a letter in her life. Not that it makes much 
difference, for she can’t read, still it must be tiresome to 
go to your death without ever having a letter sent you.” 

Sheila smiled at the word “tiresome.” 

“I used to read a lot before my first baby was born. 
I got Johnson's Penny Stories each week. My sister 


DIFFERENT GODS 


273 


used to smuggle them in to me; she was a widder, and 
could do what she liked. I had to be careful, but my 
husband never found out.” 

‘Why hadn’t he to know?” 

“He was a strong Methodist, and didn’t hold with 
reading, except the Holy Scripture. He used to read the 
spicy bits in the Bible every Sunday, but,” she made a 
grimace, nodding her head rapidly, ^Hhat was all right, 
being the Bible. There wasn’t a wrong word in Johnson^s 
Penny Stories, or a wrong thought, but it would have been 
no use telling him that. Do you think I’d have dared to 
have that photo about of Maud with chiffon round her 
shoulders if he was alive? Don’t make that mistake.” 

“I suppose Old Bob held the same views as your 
husband.” 

“My husband got them from Old Bob. They were 
thrashed into him, those views as you call them. They’re 
all the same round here. You haven’t to play cards or 
dance. Lots of them are against cricket and football and 
any game at all. And what’s the consequence? The 
boys and girls go love-making in the lanes at night long 
before they should, the men go to the inn, and the women 
gossip. What else can they do? When you’ve got spare 
time you’ve to fill it up somehow.” She nodded her 
head again. “I got my children out of this as soon as I 
could. I’d have got myself out too, only I can’t sell the 
place, and I’m fond of it, being married here, and all of 
my children being born in the very bedroom that’s over 
your head now. Besides, it spites Old Bob.” 

“You don’t read now, do you?” 

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Turton in surprise. “Reading’s 
only for young people.” 

“Doesn’t the thought of Old Bob ever worry you? I 


274 DIFFERENT GODS 

don’t like seeing his tombstone through the window when 
I go to bed.” 

‘‘I do.” Sudden ferocity darkened Mrs. Turton’s face. 
“I like to think of him stuck down there not able to inter¬ 
fere any more. I was glad there was no room in the 
grave for my husband. I’d have been fancying the old 
scamp bullying him as usual.” 

“Not when he’s dead.” 

“I’d have fancied it.” 

She trembled slightly. To change the conversation 
Sheila said cheerfully, “Sammy’s looking splendid, isn’t 
he?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Turton. “He’s put on weight too. 
Let me see, you’re going the day after to-morrow, aren’t 
you?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s a bad time of the year to come.” 

“Not for Sammy, because he gets so much fresh air 
in the daytime that he’s ready for bed as soon as it be¬ 
comes dark.” 

“It isn’t a holiday for a young lady, though.” 

“No, but I didn’t come for a holiday, I only came to 
look after Sammy.” 

“P’raps you’ll be coming in the summer. I hope so.” 

“That depends on what the summer brings,” said Sheila. 


4 


CHAPTER XL 


W HEN Sheila and Sammy arrived home, Peg 
made a great fuss of them and was delighted 
with the improvement in Sammy’s health. 
Over tea she gave him as many cakes as he wanted, 
and when he went to bed she furtively pushed into his 
fingers a large bar of chocolate cream. 

‘T saw you!” said Sheila indignantly. ^‘You shouldn’t, 

Peg! What’s the good of-” 

‘‘Oh, never mind. I used to long for cake and choco¬ 
lates when I was a kid, and by the time I could get them 
I didn’t want them then—not as much.” 

“But-” 

. “Stop preaching. What do you think of the Henry 
affair? Do you think you could learn shorthand and type¬ 
writing in three months?” 

“I’ll have a jolly good try. But Mrs. Henry mightn’t 
take to me.” 

“Yes, she will. I described you to her in detail and 
most untruthfully, and when you go to see her I’m dress¬ 
ing you for the part.” 

“When am I going?” 

“Wednesday.” 

When Sheila was ready to go on Wednesday, wearing 
the clothes that Peg had directed. Peg surveyed her critic¬ 
ally. 

“Your hat’s on too nicely,” she said. “Just a minute 
while I shove it back a bit.” 


275 




DIFFERENT GODS 


276 

^'What nonsense!’' said Sheila, laughing. ''You’re 
making me feel an awful hypocrite.” 

"It’s Mrs. Henry who’s the hypocrite.” 

"What’s she like?” 

"Poor devil.” 

"Like that?” 

"Bet you ten to one you’ll get the job. How long will 
you be?” 

"I don’t know.” 

"About an hour and a half, I think.” 

Peg waited for her, thinking deeply, her mischievous 
face grave. 

"Well?” she said when Sheila came back. 

"You’ve won your bet,” said Sheila. 

"Got it?” 

"Practically.” 

"Hurray. Fork out. I knew you would,” said Peg 
rather excitedly. "Fancy having a full-fledged secretary 
for a sister.” 

"Full-fledged? I don’t know a thing. Mrs. Henry’s 
really awfully kind. She’s arranged for me to go to the 
office for a fortnight’s trial, before the present secretary 
leaves. And I’m to be paid at the same time. She in¬ 
sisted on that. Isn’t it thoughtful of her?” 

"No. She knows her husband would be justified in 
throwing a girl out if she were entirely inexperienced. 
Then he might find a girl on his own.” 

"What if he did?” 

"Mrs. Henry doesn’t want that. I’m by no means 
brainy, but something tells me that Henry, Esquire, is 
gay and Mrs. Henry knows it.” 

"I think he’s weak.” 

"It’s possible. But it’s probable he’s merely anxious 


DIFFERENT GODS 


277 

for peace. She might worry him to death if he had a 
flighty secretary she didn’t approve of. Silly fool! 
Doesn’t she understand that a man needn’t depend on his 
secretary for amusement?” 

‘‘I wonder why he married her. She’s kind, but awfully 
uninteresting and precise.” 

“Lord knows! She wasn’t always an invalid, you 
know.” 

“No, I suppose illness has altered her.” 

Sheila worked hard at shorthand, which she found very 
difficult and dull. The mental exercise was good for her, 
it prevented her from dwelling continually on Philip’s 
absence, and she was stimulated by having something to 
look forward to. The salary too would be useful, she 
reflected, in augmenting the little income Grandmother 
had left her 

She knew that her sorrow was only one of many mil¬ 
lions of sorrows. Countless women were enduring the 
suspense she was enduring or had already borne the news 
of death. There w^ere women like Mrs. Henry, lonely, 
ill and unloved, and girls who were sacrificing their 
strength in doing men’s work. 

“If the worst news comes,” she said to herself, “I will 
try and take it bravely.” 

But the thought of the news that would be worst filled 
her with such anguish that she had to thrust it away. 

On the first morning she went to Mr. Henry’s office 
she had to get up hurriedly in order to be in time. She 
was glad of that, it was so much better than lying in bed 
brooding, having a leisurely breakfast, and then wonder¬ 
ing what to do with the day so that she could drive away 
from her mind the terrifying thoughts of war. 

As she entered the narrow doorway of the office, self- 


DIFFERENT GODS 


278 

distrust seized her, the building looked so dismal and 
cold. Supposing she were dismissed after the fortnight’s 
trial! How disgraceful that would be! 

She walked along a passage, wondering which way 
to turn, when a door opened and a stiff young woman 
said, in a very correct voice, “Are you Miss Derwent?” 

“Yes,” said Sheila. 

“This is the room.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You can put your clothes here,” said the woman, in¬ 
dicating a peg on the door. 

Sheila took her hat and coat off, feeling crushed and 
small. 

“Mr. Henry hasn’t come yet, but we can find plenty 
to do in the meantime.” She pushed forward a chair, 
and Sheila sat down upon it, shyly saying, “I presume 
you are Miss Lakin, Mr. Henry’s secretary.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lakin, speaking in a quiet voice, but 
in the manner of one addressing a large audience. “I have 
been his secretary for six years. I came on Mrs. Henry’s 
recommendation.” 

“So did I,” said Sheila, trying to be friendly. 

“Oh.” Miss Lakin surveyed her with more approval. 
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Henry for some time. She has left 
the neighbourhood, and our church is now too far away 
for her. I am the sister of the Sunday School superin¬ 
tendent.” 

“Oh?” said Sheila politely. 

“You won’t like Mr. Henry.” 

“I thought not.” 

“Did you?” Miss Lakin nodded her head significantly. 
“I don’t like seeming to prejudice you against him, but 
I think it only right to tell you that he is not a good 


DIFFERENT GODS 


279 


man.’^ Miss Lakin paused to stare at Sheila’s wide-open 
eyeS; her tender mouth, her fragile curves, and her hat 
w^hich wasn’t now shoved too far back. ^‘He didn’t try any 
of his nonsense on me,” she went on, ‘^but I was always 
sensible, and I was engaged when I came.” 

^^I’m sure-” began Sheila, feeling uncomfortable. 

‘‘I’m not suggesting you’d pay any attention to him. 
I’m merely preparing you, trying to explain what sort of 
boss you’re going to have.. It’s very difficult finding one’s 
feet oneself.” 

“It’s very kind of you.” 

“I’m glad to say that my fiance is a different sort of 
man.” She fingered a medallion that hung on a chain 
round her neck as she spoke, and Sheila saw in it the 
photograph of a large square face with a huge black 
moustache and almost invisible nose. 

“Is that your fiance?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lakin with satisfaction. “He’s a 
splendid man, never smokes, drinks, or plays cards, and 
is an indefatigable church worker.” 

“I hope you’ll be very happy.” 

“We will,” said Miss Lakin emphatically. 

Sheila v/anted to say, “Don’t say that. Don’t be too 
sure of anything,” but something in Miss Lakin’s demean¬ 
our forbade her. 

The room was neat and tidy. Miss Lakin’s desk was 
immaculate, and all her movements were decided, capable, 
and quick but without hurry. Sheila wondered, her heart 
sinking, if she would ever be able to reach such com¬ 
petence, and nervousness assailed her. 

“There is one good thing about Mr. Henry,” said Miss 
Lakin in the voice of one anxious to be just, and pouring 
a basket of letters on to the desk, “he doesn’t interfere. 



28 o 


DIFFERENT GODS 


That is one of the reasons why I have stayed here so long, 
I shouldn’t like anyone fussing about me. Of course,” 
she sighed heavily, ‘Tis lack of interference isn’t really 
a good thing from the point of view of his character, as 
it proceeds from laziness. If I were careless and slipshod 
he wouldn’t pull me up unless he were absolutely driven 
to it.” 

“That’s rather nice of him,” said Sheila, a little plead- 
ingly. 

“Not at all. It’s laziness and lack of conscientiousness. 
It is unfortunate the business doesn’t rest on his shoul¬ 
ders alone.” 

“Doesn’t it?” 

“Oh no! Mr. Hartley is the working partner. It’s 
Henry and Hartley, you know. But there’s a lot of 
Mr. Henry’s money in it. He’s very clever and cute when 
he wants to be. But he’s erratic and unreliable and doesn’t 
like drudgery. Mr. Hartley is so different. He’s pains¬ 
taking and is never a minute late. I’ve often wished I 
were working for him, I’m happy with methodical 
people.” She smoothed back her hair which was already 
perfectly smooth, straightened her back, hitched her chair 
forward and said importantly, “Now, this is the corre¬ 
spondence. I put to one side any letter marked, ‘Per¬ 
sonal’.” To Sheila’s mystification she said this gloomily. 
Then she began to sort out the letters. 

“Ah!” 

She flung to one side a small oblong envelope addressed 
in large round J-nib handwriting and marked in capitals, 
“personal.” ' 

“A woman,” she said. “She’s been writing often these 
last few weeks. She must be a new one.” 

She went on with the letters in silence. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


281 


old flame/’ she said, hurling another letter on the 
“personal” pile. “Really I’ve often thought that an 
anonymous letter should be sent to Mrs. Henry.” 

“Why anonymous?” asked Sheila quietly. 

“I mean,” said Miss Lakin in blank surprise—she 
wasn’t used to either argument or disapproval, “that this 
state of affairs is disgraceful, and that Mrs. Henry ought 
to know about it. But one doesn’t like to—er—er make 
a personal intrusion. You see I know Mrs. Henry very 
well.” 

“But after all there’s no harm in his getting letters 
sent to his office, is there? You see I know of a man”— 
she meant Augustus—“who believes that husbands and 
wives should always open each other’s letters. That’s not 
fair, in my opinion, because however fond a man and a 
woman may be of each other it doesn’t justify them in 
giving away their friends’ secrets, even to each other.” 

“My fiance and I have arranged to open all each 
other’s letters. I think it right. *Ye twain shall be one 
flesh: ” 

“But what has that to do with your friends?” 

Miss Lakin ignored the question, looking displeased, 
and said coldly, “The trouble is that these friends of 
Mr. Henry’s are women!* 

“Don’t men ever write to him?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lakin shortly. She gave Sheila a 
careful scrutiny, and seeing only wistfulness in her face 
and none of the mockery she expected, she added gra¬ 
ciously, “I know it is hard to believe evil of anybody 
when you are pure in heart yourself, but remember I have 
been here six years. I haven’t discovered all I know in 
a day. And these women have rung him up on the ’phone. 
I’ve replied to them, in his absence, many a time. I 


202 


DIFFERENT GODS 


mean IVe told them he’s out, and when I’ve asked them 
would they care to leave a message they always say that 
it doesn’t matter.” 

The door opened, and Mr. Henry came into the room. 
He was of medium height, had greyish hair, a fair com¬ 
plexion and hazel, amused, most ironical eyes. 

‘‘Good-morning,” he said to Miss Lakin, and glanced 
at Sheila. 

“Miss Derwent, Mr. Henry,” said Miss Lakin, uncon¬ 
sciously accentuating her precise manner. 

“Ah! How do you do. Miss Derwent. Don’t work 
too hard. Are you going to like the place? Isn’t it 
beastly cold to-day?” He turned to Miss Lakin. “Did 
Burns ring up yesterday?” 

“I told you he did, Mr. Henry. I told you at half¬ 
past four yesterday, Mr. Henry.” 

“Oh yes.” He glanced at Sheila again. “Don’t let 
Miss Lakin frighten you with her efficiency. I’m sure 
you’ll be able to slide into the work.” He smiled at her, 
his head a little to one side. Miss Lakin ostentatiously 
hitched up her chair again and began working. Mr. 
Henry sauntered out, and they heard him whistling softly 
as he walked into his room. 

The fortnight’s trial was a hard fortnight for Sheila. 
Miss Lakin, who was always determined to do her duty, 
never ceased teaching and explaining, and she was so anx¬ 
ious to be of help, so strict and earnest, that Sheila felt 
like a schoolgirl if she failed to remember something she 
had been told. 

Each evening she went home very tired, ate hungrily, 
found keen enjoyment in resting during the remainder of 
the evening, and went to bed ready to sleep. But she slept 
heavily, subconsciously rehearsing all she had learnt in 


DIFFERENT GODS 


283 

the day and wondering what she would do when Miss 
Lakin went and she had no one to help her. She thought 
Mr. Henry would keep her on because he always seemed 
pleased with her. 

On Miss Lakin’s last day at the office she became 
rather sentimental, but her sentimentality extended to 
her desk and other articles of furniture, rather than 
to any human being in the place. 

She went to say ‘^Good-bye” to Mr. Henry, came back 
with a ponderous, troubled air, shook hands cordially and 
concernedly with Sheila, and turned back from the door 
to take down the penny coat-hanger she had forgotten, 
and which she proceeded to wrap up in brown paper. 

When she had gone Mr. Henry came into the room. 

^‘Has the fair one departed at last?” he inquired. 

“Miss Lakin’s gone,” said Sheila, rather coldly. 

“Consider yourself rebuked, dear fellow,” said Mr. 
Henry, his eyes mischievous and sparkling. 

“Not at all,” murmured Sheila. Then she added: “Am 
I staying on?” 

“Most assuredly.” 

“I do hope I do the work properly.” 

“I’m sure you will.” 

“I feel worried at times that-” 

“Oh,” he said, genuinely distressed, “don’t let any¬ 
thing worry you. You won’t hesitate about coming in to 
me if there’s anything you can’t understand, will you? 
I don’t expect you to resemble the late automaton right 
away, and I pray you never will.” He paused, adding, 
his mouth young as a schoolboy’s, rebuked this 

time.” 

Sheila picked up a letter from the desk and pretended 
to read it. 



DIFFERENT GODS 


284 

Mr. Henry went over to the window and stared out, 
his hands in his pockets, and rising and falling on his 
heels absent-mindedly. 

‘That’s a grand sky,” he said. 

“Yes, it’s beautiful, but it isn’t as beautiful as possible.” 

“Why?” 

“The colours are so very faint.” 

“You’re a little pagan, aren’t you?” 

“Oh no.” 

“I think you are.” 

He turned from the window absent-mindedly, and went 
out of the room. 


CHAPTER XLI 


A fter some weeks Sheila found that, try as she 
would, she couldnT dislike Mr. Henry. She had 
once imagined that you spontaneously disliked 
what you didn’t approve of. She didn’t approve of Mr. 
Henry, but it was impossible to dislike him. She was 
quite certain that if he worried his wife it was not be¬ 
cause he was callous or cruel but because he couldn’t 
help it. He was tenderhearted and lenient, and his face, 
in spite of the ironical expression in his eyes, was com¬ 
pletely kind. He was infinitely patient with her short¬ 
comings, and his way of pointing out any mistake was 
charming in its diffidence. 

She developed an affection for him, yet she was never 
in his company five minutes without feeling grateful it 
was Philip that she loved. She thought, ‘Tf I had tooth¬ 
ache or felt, as I so often do, afraid of things, Philip 
would love me just the same, probably more than usual. 
But Mr. Henry would turn away from a woman if she 
were ill or looking plain. He wouldn’t be brutal or neglect 
to see she was well looked after, but he would just keep 
away.” 

He had once said to her: ‘T hate a sick-room.” 

She replied impatiently: “Everybody does, but it would 
be a cruel world if we all avoided what we hated.” 

He received this with his characteristic smile, putting 
his hands in his pockets and surveying her with amuse¬ 
ment. 

285 


286 


DIFFERENT GODS 


She thought of his invalid wife and said heatedly, 
“You’re like the aborigines of Australia. You-” 

He laughed aloud then, but quickly recovered himself, 
saying delightedly, “Go on. You were saying I am like 
the aborigines of Australia.” 

“They leave the sick to die by themselves.” 

“But I,” he said, “would nurse a sick person, if there 
was nobody else to do it.” 

She turned to her desk, trying to look busy. 

“What a serious little thing you are!” he said. 

“I’m only serious over serious things.” 

“How foolish! You should be serious over nothing at 
your age.” 

“That’s stupid!” she retorted. 

He laughed, wrinkling up his eyes, and said between 
chuckles, “Miss Lakin never talked to me like that.” 

“I suppose she kept her place better than I do,” said 
Sheila slyly, trying not to join with his laughter. 

It was funny to see him in a temper. Sheila could 
sometimes hear him banging the drawers of his desk, 
and rating a young man clerk, but he never spoke in 
anger or even displeasure to any woman on the staff, 
however little he liked her. 

One morning when she went to his room to take down 
letters, feeling very happy because in his last letter 
Philip had said there was a possibility of his coming home 
on short leave, she saw Mr. Henry absent-mindedly rum¬ 
maging amongst papers on his desk and murmuring 
poetry in an exquisite manner. His voice was not deep 
or musical in timbre, but it had beautiful intonations. 
She listened, enrapt, recognizing in him her own passion 
for melodious words. 



DIFFERENT GODS 287 

He broke off, saying cheerfully: “Ah! Miss Derwent. 
Are you going to make me work?’^ 

“What poetry was it you were saying?” 

“Poetry? When?” 

“Just now.” 

“I was saying some verses out of the Bible.” 

“What verses are they? They sound so beautiful.” 

A mischievous light passed over his face. 

“Do you think so? I’m awfully sorry to have to dis¬ 
appoint you, I was simply saying the names of a number 
of villages.” 

“You werenH!” she said reproachfully. 

“I was. Miss Derwent, dear.” 

^^And at Jeshua and at Moladah and at Bethphelet, 

And at Hazar-shual and Beersheba, 

V 

And in the villages thereof. 

And at Ziklag and at Mekoncitj 
And in the villages thereof. 

And at Enrimman and at Zareah and at Jarmuth. . . . 
There are lots more villages thereof.” 

“Do go on.” 

He laughed, while she regarded him with interest. 

He had given those meaningless words such beauty that 
they affected her senses like music. 

“I’m in the devil of a mood this morning,” he said. 
“And how I loathe this office when I’m in the devil of a 
mood! Miss Derwent, dear, there’s only one life worth 
living, and that’s the artist’s life.” 

“You are an artist.” 

“Only by instinct.” 

“That’s everything, isn’t it?” 

“No. Once I wrote a poem and got it accepted, and 
was paid one pound sterling, and I wrote other poems and 


288 


DIFFERENT GODS 


didn’t get them accepted. I couldn’t live therefore by 
writing poetry, not in the way I like to live. Miirger’s 
Bohemianism doesn’t entirely appeal to me, though it 
does to a great extent, because I like having my morning 
bath, and certain meals, and fine raiment, and the means 
of bestowing dinners on the friends of my bosom.” 

'Toets never get all their poems taken at once.” 

“And they invariably starve till they do. I’d be no good 
at starving.” 

He rummaged amongst his papers again, then pushed 
them to one side despairingly. He leapt from his chair 
and went to the fire, standing with his back to it and rest¬ 
ing his shoulders against the high mantelpiece. 

“Are we going to start on the letters now?” asked 
Sheila, looking business-like. 

^‘There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when / 
loved not. 

She put her hand in my handy and set her Ups to my lips 
She told me all her pain and showed me all her trouble. 

1 , like a fool, scarce heard, hardly returned her kiss. 

^‘Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld 
them. 

Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life, 
Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance . . .” 

He broke off to look at Sheila’s face. She had noticed 
that all the time he was speaking in pleading, desperate, 
passionate tones, he was smiling with amusement and 
derision, and the ironical light in his eyes was blazing. 
She reflected that an actor is careful to make his face as 
well as his voice express the words he is saying, yet Mr. 
Henry got the greatest possible effect with his voice 
alone, for his face belied it. 


DIFFERENT GODS 289 

She was disconcerted a little by the ardour of the words 
and, perceiving that, he went on: 

r 

Speak, O desolate city I Speak, 0 silence in sadness! 

Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my 
soul? 

Where are those passionate eyes that appeal’d to my eyes in 
passion? 

Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast I laid to my 
own?” 


Embarrassment clouded for a moment the delight his 
reciting gave her. Except for his voice the room was so 
silent. The corridors were noisy with footsteps. The 
traffic buzzed outside. Mr. Henry leaned his head back, 
and Sheila wished she could feel some of the irritation 
and awkwardness she usually experienced when people 
recited. 

He said: ^‘Sheila, when the artist in you forgets the 
woman in you, what a dangerous creature you’ll be.” 

She answered quite inconsequently: “I just want to be 
good.” 

^‘Yes,” he said, ^That’s the devil of it. But why do 
you want to be good? And what do you mean by good? 
Some women think that goodness is absence of experience. 
Don’t you want your life to be as rich as possible?” 

^^Yes. Sometimes I wish I could put on my hat, like 
a man, and walk through the by-ways unobserved. I’d 
like to talk to all sorts of people, good or bad; clean or 
dirty, crooked or straight. I’d like to be free of all con¬ 
science and of all responsibility-” 

“What responsibility have you?” 

“All women have responsibility even before they meet 
the only man. They can’t help thinking, ‘Would my chil- 



290 


DIFFERENT GODS 


dren like me to do this or say this or even think this?^ 
It’s like living with invisible mentors, tender and weak, 
but with demands so uncompromising and so strong that 
they control you even against your will/’ 

“I should have said, when the artist in you forgets 
the mother in you-” 

^^Did you write these verses?” she asked quickly, to 
change the subject. 

^‘No,” he said. “Wilfred Scawen Blunt has that 
honour. I said them in the wrong order. Haven’t you 
got The Oxford Book of English Verse?^^ 

“No.” 

“That’s dreadful, it must be seen to.” 

“I believe you could turn a multiplication table into 
poetry.” 

“Do you think I could?” 

“Yes. What about the letters?” 

“Miss Lakin never wasted my time like this.” 

“She wouldn’t let you waste hers as I do.” 

He laughed. “Let’s get to the damn things. I beg 
your pardon.” 

The next day while Mr. Henry was still out at lunch 
his telephone bell rang. 

Sheila picked up the receiver. 

“Hello.” 

“I wish to speak to Mr. Henry.” 

“I’m sorry, but he’s out.” 

“When will he be back?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Who is speaking?” 

“His secretary.” 

“Tell him as soon as he comes back that I must see 
him at once, and that he must make arrangements.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


291 


“Tell him at once.’^ 

When Sheila didn’t reply, she said impatiently: “Did 
you hear that? Tell him at once.” 

“I’ll tell him as soon as I can.” 

He came in humming. 

“A lady rang you up.” 

“Who?” 

“She didn’t give her name. She says she must see 
you at once.” 

His face clouded with displeasure. He immediately 
turned on to business matters and spoke in his usual 
courteous tones. 

The following morning when Sheila was opening the 
letters she came across one which read: 

“My Dearest, 

“IF^y didnH you make arrangements to see me? I 
spoke to your secretary but I suppose the stupid thing 
forgot to give my message. Let me see you at once, dar¬ 
ling, I am nearly dying with love of you -” 

Sheila gave a sudden jerk. She turned quickly to the 
envelope. It wasn’t marked “Personal,” but why hadn’t 
she recognized that large, round, J-nib handwriting? And 
why hadn’t she stopped reading the moment she saw the 
beginning? She always read very quickly. Her eyes 
had travelled along with their usual rapidity before she 
had had time to realize she was looking at another 
person’s letter. 

She put the letter back in the envelope. Mr. Henry 
would know she had seen it. How embarrassing for 
them both. How excited the woman must have been to 



292 


DIFFERENT GODS 


forget to mark her letter ‘TersonaFM How abandoned 
to her longing, how unhappy! On the top of the first 
page she had written, ‘‘Think of your Cherie and be 
kindT Was it possible for Mr. Henry to be cruel? 

She decided to take the letter to him at once and 
explain. 

opened it by mistake,” she said hurriedly. 

“Ah!” he said calmly, taking the letter and placing it 
upon the desk. Then he looked at her flushed cheeks, 
and reproachful, disapproving eyes. 

“If you’re ever so foolish,” he said in bantering tones, 
“as to fall in love with a man who is indifferent to you, 
don’t pursue him. Then, if you can’t get his affection, 
you can at least retain his respect.” 

“If I were a man,” she said, “and wicked enough to 
make women fall in love with me for fun, I’d be nice to 
them. I wouldn’t refuse to meet them when they ex¬ 
pected me, anyhow.” 

“Wouldn’t you, Sheila?” he said affectionately. Then 
his voice dropped, though his ironical eyes continued to 
smile. “She doesn’t like me calling her Sheila to-day.” 

“I haven’t said I liked it any time.” 

“Miss Derwent-” he smiled over the name. “You 

have made all sorts of accusations on the strength of an 
hysterical letter.” 

“It has occurred to me,” said she coldly, “that it’s not 
my business to make accusations at all.” 

She went to her own room then and worked busily. 

“Cherie” continued to write, and one morning Sheila 
again had to speak to her over the telephone. 

“Mr. Henry is out.” 

“But I always ring him up at this time.” 

“Would you like to leave a message?” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


293 

^‘You’d probably forget it. Oh, wait, tell him I’ll call 
at the office.” 

Sheila felt that her sympathies were being alienated, 
in spite of herself, by the woman’s rudeness and by the 
impatience of her voice. 

She said to Mr. Henry when he returned, forcing her¬ 
self to speak quite impersonally, 

‘‘The lady rang you up again.” 

“TAe lady! Oh, don’t say that.’’ 

“A lady.” 

“That’s better.” 

“Well?” 

“She said she might call.” 

He whistled softly in fury, smiled at Sheila, thanked 
her, and went immediately to the telephone, picking up 
the receiver with an angry, determined movement. 

That evening Sheila received a letter from Philip, say¬ 
ing that the leave he expected was postponed. She was 
bitterly disappointed, but merely said to Peg: “It’s a pity, 
isn’t it!” 

“It’s a beastly shame I ” said Peg indignantly. 

“I wonder why Gilbert doesn’t write? We’ve never 
heard from him since he went out.” 

“I suppose he’s too busy getting V.C.’s and things. 
He was awfully anxious to earn distinction. I’ve never 
heard any man as enthusiastic as he was about doing 
glorious things. He must have hated West Africa so much 
that even war’s a paradise compared with it.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

She went to bed early, finding conversation of any sort 
something of a strain. Philip wasn’t coming home after 
all! And she had counted so much on seeing him. She 


294 


DIFFERENT GODS 


often successfully argued with herself that it was unreason¬ 
able to imagine the worst, but at other times, when coming 
across the list of wounded and dead in the papers, she 
would say to herself: ‘‘I suppose the women belonging 
to these men were told they were unreasonable for imag¬ 
ining the worst. But they weren’t, for the worst has hap¬ 
pened to them. Anyhow it can’t be unreasonable to imag¬ 
ine what is probable.” 

The old misery swept over her, and she wished she 
could weep it out of herself, but tears came to her with 
difficulty, and only physical pain, never mental suffering, 
could bring them. 

She thought of Fanny with something like tenderness. 
She was no longer the cause of sorrow but a woman griev¬ 
ing. She too would have been glad to see Philip and, if 
he had told her he was coming, would be as disappointed 
as she was his leave was postponed, and more unhappy 
than she was because she knew he didn’t love her. 

She entered the office listlessly next morning. 

Mr. Henry noticed she was pale. 

“I didn’t sleep very well,” she said. 

He regarded her kindly for a moment, then said: “Is 
there a well-beloved person in France?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

She didn’t resent his question, his expression was so 
kind. She went to her room and was glad there was 
plenty to do. 

An hour or so later while she was deeply engrossed in 
her work, she heard a woman’s voice say excitedly: “I 
wrote to you a letter which must have reached you this 
morning. Why didn’t you ring me up?” 

Mr. Henry replied, in tones Sheila had never heard him 


DIFFERENT GODS 


’295 

use before: “Didn’t I tell you expressly you Had not to 
call at this office? Didn’t I ask you not to pursue me?” 

Sheila looked up quickly. She had been so busy she 
hadn’t heard any footsteps or the sound of Mr. Henry’s 
door opening. A letter from Cherie had come that morn¬ 
ing. So this was Cherie! She could hear her talking in 
pleading, excited tones. Her words were indistinguish¬ 
able. Now and again Mr. Henry’s voice broke in upon 
them, curtly, grimly, furiously. 

Sheila’s hands fell from her typewriter. She wondered 
if she should go away somewhere till the woman had 
gone. Then she noticed that the door was ajar. She got 
up to close it. Mr. Henry’s door opened violently, the 
woman came out and walked along the passage, her eyes 
hot, her cheeks flaming, her face almost cadaverous. It 
was Fanny! 

Sheila stepped back, closed the door, and went to her 
chair. Her knees were trembling. Her mind was con¬ 
fused. Fanny was Cherie, and she had written love-letters 
to Mr. Henry and persecuted him with her attentions. 
Fanny! Fanny! 

When she got home she told Peg. 

‘^By Jingo!” 

“I can’t understand it,” said Sheila. “I’ve imagined 
her sad and unhappy. I’ve worried like anything about 
her. Yet nearly all the time she was making love to Mr. 
Henry.” 

“I’m not surprised she was making love,” said Peg, 
“but what caps me is that it should be Henry.” 

“But how can it be anyone at all? She fought for 
Philip so, and loved him.” 

“No. She fought for a man and wanted him. I tell 
you if he had loved her as he loved you^ if she’d the 


DIFFERENT, GODS 


296 

power over him that you have, she’d have flung him aside 
long ago. She’s like a certain sort of man who loves a: 
woman as long as she resists him—^I’m a bit that way 
myself.” 

“But Philip is still indifferent, so why isn’t she still in 
love?” 

“Because he isn’t available. His actual physical pres¬ 
ence is gone. So she looks for some one else. She must 
have a flesh-and-blood man about her. She’s no use for 
memories, or letters, or communion of the spirit and all 
that business. But you won’t understand.” 

“I can’t,” said Sheila simply. Then she added: “I feel 
as though a load has been taken off my mind.” 

“I’m awfully glad I haven’t a conscience like you. 
There need never have been any load.” 

“I’ll write and tell Philip.” 

“Don’t think all your trouble’s over. Henry’s evidently 
done with her. But she’ll look for somebody else. If 
she doesn’t find anyone else she’ll have to fall back on 
Philip. How did she look?” 

“She had a beautiful colour and was exquisitely dressed, 
but you could see the bones of her face.” 

“Rage and love in equal proportions.” 

“It’s beyond me.” 



•» 


•. ( 




CHAPTER XLII 


P hilip wrote back saying he was not surprised at 
the news, as Fanny hardly ever wrote to him, 
and hadn’t worried him at all with protestations 
of affection. 

ojten wanted to tell you this,* he wrote, 'T knew it 
would please you, but yoiCll never realize how much I 
loathe bringing you into contact with these matters. Vm 
jolly glad you still like being at the office, and that you 
get on so well with Mr. Henryy but donH get on too well 
with him, darling. What a selfish beast I am! Con¬ 
sider that unsaid. I wish Vd met the chap, though. 
Things are buzzing out here, but Vm perfectly safe. 
DonH forget that. My Own Most Dearest and Very Best 
Beloved!' 

am perfectly safe." The sentence irradiated the 
morning. She laughed over breakfast, and told Peg 
what Philip had written about Fanny, ending up trium¬ 
phantly with, “He is perfectly safe.” 

Peg, who had been talking to Augustus of the gravity 
of the situation in France, looked at her anxiously, but 
smiled with her. 

At the office Sheila was so gay that Mr. Henry said, 
quizzically, “Miss Derwent, dear, is the Well-beloved 
coming home?” 

“It isn’t as nice as that,” she laughed. 

“What isn’t?” 

“Everything.” 


297 


DIFFERENT GODS 


298 

He was relieved that she didn’t look coolly at him on 
account of Fanny’s visit the day before. He knew she 
must have heard her voice. 

Sheila read his thoughts. 

‘‘Ah!” she said to herself, “if he only knew how happy 
that visit has made me.” 

She went to her usual table for lunch, and when she 
had given her order to the waitress she looked across the 
room and saw Mr. Henry hanging up his coat. 

He was waiting for her glance, and when he encountered 
it he came over to her. 

“Is there any law,” he said, “against a poor man lunch¬ 
ing with his boss?” 

“There’s a law against a secretary lunching with her 
boss.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“It’s true.” 

“I deny it.” 

“You can’t.” 

“I do.” 

He sat down opposite her and examined the menu. 

“You’ve given your order, haven’t you?” 

“Yes. How do you know?” 

“I watched you.” 

“All that time?” 

“You were exactly point nought nought eight two re¬ 
curring of a minute. What’s this they’re playing?” 

“Wagner!” she said, and made a little grimace. 

“Have you the impertinence to sit there. Miss Derwent, 
and deliberately sneer at that great man.” 

“I can’t bear him.” 

Mr. Henry’s eyes assumed the astounded stare of all 
Wagnerites on hearing that remark. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


299 


‘‘Don^t tell me you prefer the Italian operas.’^ 

‘‘I adore them.’^ 

“A series of emotional songs joined together with pif¬ 
fling recitative and accompanied by vamping.’’ 

^^Oh!” she cried indignantly. “How wickedly you ex¬ 
aggerate! It’s true the recitative is sometimes weak and 
that the orchestral part is occasionally merely accompani¬ 
ment. But isn't it better for music to accompany singing 
than for singing to accompany music as it does in Wag¬ 
ner’s operas—nearly always.” 

“Wagner aimed at making voice and orchestra equal.” 

“He aimed at it, but he didn’t do it. Tannhauser’ 
is rather wonderful if you leave out the singing, but if 
you do that it is no longer an opera.” 

“If—you—leave—out—the—singing—madam!” he 
said, his eyes dancing. 

“Yes. Oh, those meandering songs!” 

“I thought all women liked ^0 Star of Eve\’’ 

“I like that,” she admitted, “but what of Elizabeth’s 
dreary part? And Tannhauser’s 'Hail! Goddess of 
Love!^ why, before I first heard that I expected something 
glorious, and enraptured, and lovely, something that sug¬ 
gested love, not a chirpy, musical-drill march.” 

“Wagner didn’t reach as far as he aimed, but his fall¬ 
ing short is better than the achievements of all the rest 
put together.” 

“No.” Then she smiled. “But what’s the good of 
arguing about it? Let’s accept the fact that Wagner’s 
operas give you the greatest pleasure, and that Italian 
operas give me the greatest pleasure.” 

“All of them?” 

“Oh no.” 


300 


DIFFERENT GODS 


‘‘But tell me, why do you dislike Wagner? You can 
admire the others without hating him.” 

“I don^t hate him, but I like the others better.” 

“If you don’t hate him do you ever like him?” 

“Often.” 

The waitress came for his order. 

“Well?” he said, when she had gone. 

“I really can’t explain it. It’s a matter of feeling. 
When I’ve heard Pagliacci or Rigoletto, for instance, 
though the story is awfully tragic in both cases, I come 
away invigorated by the music. I don’t feel a bit de¬ 
pressed. I don’t mind tragedy if it’s quick, human 
tragedy. But Wagner leaves you limp and dreary. He’s 
unadulterated gloom. And the people aren’t real.” 

“Sheila, acknowledge one bond between us, we both 
love music.” 

“I do love it.” 

“Tell the truth and admit that Wagner never bores you, 
even if he irritates you sometimes.” 

“No, he never bores me.” 

“He makes the orchestral parts of every other opera 
sound thin.” 

“Yes. I’m afraid he does. But that terrific volume 
of his, I don’t mean in noise, but in sound, is really too 
much for me. I can hardly bear it. You hear other 
music with your ears, you absorb his with your skin.” 

“Sheila, you’ll be a Wagnerite some day.” 

“No.” 

“I suppose Puccini is one of your favourites.” 

“Oh yes.” 

“I wish, since his heroines insist on dying, they wouldn’t 
take so long about it.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


301 

“Well,” she flashed back, “they die like human beings. 
That’s better than living like allegories.” 

“Don’t you like allegories?” 

“I’d rather have people.” 

“Didn’t I say at first you were a little pagan.” 

“But I’m not.” 

He laughed and began to eat. He said funny things 
to his food and enjoyed Sheila’s amusement. He felt as 
happy as a boy that she wasn’t treating him coldly on 
account of Fanny’s visit, and she, feeling extraordinarily 
light-hearted, fed his happiness with hers. 

While they waited for coffee he murmured snatches 
of poetry in his amazing fashion, his voice soft as a 
breath, his eyes ironical. 

"We two/* she said, ""will seek the groves 
Where the lady Mary is, 

With her five handmaidens, whose names 
Are five sweet symphonies :— 

Cicely, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys** 

“I once heard a chap say ‘handwa/Jens’ and ^Margaret’ 
in that verse. I nearly shot him.” 

“It’s a beautiful poem, but it makes me shudder. It 
suggests with such completeness the tragedy of Death.” 

“It’s a beautiful fantasy, my child, without a single 
corpse or skull in it. How then can it suggest the tragedy 
of Death?” 

“Because it suggests separation.” 

“Spiritualists say there is no separation.” 

“Yes, but they and I must be differently constituted. 
Do you think it would give me pleasure to see the spirit 
of some one I loved; and see it go again? To be warm 


302 


DIFFERENT GODS 


and human, with the blood flowing in my veins and my 
heart beating, and to watch him standing cold and ghostly, 
with Death dividing us? Not to be able to poke the 
fire and draw up a chair, hand him his pipe and talk of 
familiar things? Or to take his hand and watch him 
smile? It would be torture to me. I would rather never 
see him again till I, too, died and we were similar.” 

“Ah!” He became silent, and continuously stirred his 
coffee. “May I meet the well-beloved when he comes 
home?” 

“I should like you to meet him.” 

He shook himself determinedly, threw back his head, 
and in a few minutes, conjured her into merriment again. 
“Sheila, that’s a deuced pretty woman at the corner 
table.” 

“Yes,” said Sheila, following his glance, “she’s quite 
beautiful.” 

“And fragrant, and fastidious, and perfectly turned- 
out.” 

“She’s lovely.” 

“Now that other person, three tables to the right, 
oughtn’t to dare to call herself a woman.” 

Sheila looked for the third table to the right. Seated 
at it was a careworn, shabby woman. It was quite obvious 
that she had long ago ceased to be interested in dress or 
to expect admiration. Sheila was certain she had merged 
her womanhood into motherhood. She was no longer an 
individual with needs and wishes of her own. She had 
grown into the habit of self-forgetfulness. Her rings hung 
loose on her unselfish fingers. Her wedding-ring was thin. 

She had many parcels, which she carefully counted 
before going out. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


303 

As Sheila watched her, her old hostility to Henry 
asserted itself again. 

“Why do you say she oughtn’t to call herself a 
woman?” 

“Because she isn’t pleasing to look upon.” 

“And must a woman be pretty in order to be pleasing 
to you?” 

“She should at least imitate prettiness. She should 
adorn herself, and care for her body. She should remem¬ 
ber to be charming. Above all, she shouldn’t forget her 
womanhood. A charming woman expects to charm, she 
tries to charm. There isn’t a man in the world who 
could thrill that woman.” 

“Do you think she cares a button whether she thrills 
strange men or not? How I hate you when you talk 
like that!” 

He started, looking at her indignant eyes and hurt 
mouth. 

“I do,” she said. “It’s cruel. It’s paltry. Do you 
think that the sole object of a woman’s life should be 
to attract as many men as possible?” 

“Well-” 

“People say of a man What does he do?’ but of a 
woman. What does she look like?’ ” 

“And quite right, too.” 

“Charlotte Bronte was tremendously interested in 
meeting Thackeray because he was a fine writer. She 
was a fine writer too, yet he merely remarked, ‘She’s a 
plain little woman.’ She didn’t mention his broken nose. 
She was concerned with his greatness, not with his 
physical defects.” 

“It’s the object of a man to do. A woman need only 
be.” 



304 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^That’s all very well if she can afford it. But what 
of the thousands of women who have to work before 
they can eat, who haven’t the time, energy, or money 
to adorn themselves in the way you like.” 

“Those women,” he said, his eyes dancing, “can be 
appreciated by their own menfolk. But I’m hanged if 
I’ll do it. I bear them no ill-will. I simply say that I, 
Arthur Henry, adore the charming women. The useful 
ones-” 

“Oh!” she interrupted him impatiently, “I think it’s 
hateful of you.” 

“Isn’t it a lovely day?” he drawled mischievously, 
but his mouth was disturbed. “Notice how tactfully I 
change the subject.” 

“It must be terrible to love a man like you,” she 
blurted out involuntarily. 

“You really think that, Sheila?” 

“Only exceptional women are always well and always 
looking their best. How awful to be loved only when 
you’re amusing and bright, and to be entirely ignored 
whenever you’re ill or tired.” 

She thought of Mrs. Henry, and for a moment hated 
him. 

“I didn’t like you, on hearsay,” she said, “before I met 
you. Then I thought: It’s wrong to condemn anybody 
on the strength of what you hear. If you do that you 
put the whole world at the mercy of the scandal-monger. 
A liar can so easily say, ^This is so,’ when it isn’t. A girl 
once pointed out a woman to me, telling me that she was 
a widow who put her four children into a charity school 
and spent all her husband’s money on herself. I looked 
at that woman with scorn for years till I discovered she 
had no children at all, wasn’t even married. When I told 



DIFFERENT GODS 


305 


that to the girl who told me the story, she merely said, 
‘Well, they’re very much alike. They both have freckles 
and red hair.’ ” 

“So you didn’t like me, on hearsay,” he said, his lips 
flickering, “I’m fully aware that the fair Miss Lakin 
thinks I’m a horrid man because I take out to dinner 
women who are not my wife, and laugh with them, and 
am amused by them, and, occasionally, give them the dis- 
creetest kiss. But Miss Lakin’s opinion hasn’t the slight¬ 
est interest for me. And I am always shy of the ugly 
imaginings of the prude’s mind. If I went to Miss Lakin’s 
churchwarden—is he a churchwarden?—and said to him, 
‘My poor fellow, I think the life you are planning out for 
yourself is simply ghastly. How can you contemplate 
sharing the society of Miss Lakin and nothing but Miss 
Lakin for the rest of your days? It’s simply awful. 
You’re turning your life into a tunnel.’ If I said all that, 
he would be justified in asking me what the devil it had 
to do with me. That’s what I ask of other people. What 
the devil has it got to do with them?” 

She was going to speak, but he went on, his eyes losing 
for once their lazy expression of irony. “You consider 
that I am a brute who, neglecting his poor sick wife, fools 
about with women of questionable character. I married 
my wife when I was in love with love. I was nineteen 
and ardent. To me she was woman. She was also at 

hand-” He completed the sentence with a tiny shrug 

of the shoulders. “We found we were different. I ac¬ 
cepted the fact. She didn’t. She wanted to mould me 
to her wishes. I wouldn’t be moulded. I disliked her 
prim and prosy relatives, and when I first met her, pitied 
her for possessing them. But she liked them. The 
friends of her own choosing were prim and prosy, I 



DIFFERENT GODS 


306 

treated them with courtesy when they were invited to 
the house, but she deliberately chilled the friends I 
brought, not because she wanted to hurt me, but because 
she wanted to save my soul! My friends are men of the 
world, but they are also gentlemen. She insisted upon 
regarding them as rakes. She is nervous of wit, and in¬ 
tolerant of light-heartedness. I don’t blame her for her 
temperament. She can’t help it, but neither can I help 
mine. Her friends were uncongenial to me, but I con¬ 
cealed the fact. She was less tactful. In the end I de¬ 
cided to entertain my friends outside the house. For 
though I was willing to conform to her domestic rules, 
and they are legion, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, live within her 
restricted circle of prim and prosy people. A person has 
only to be solemn and sanctimonious to gain her appro¬ 
bation. I was anxious for her approbation, being an 
easy-going fellow, but I couldn’t get it at such a price.” 
He paused, his uncontrollable sense of humour struggling 
through his earnestness. “Sheila, I’m talking like a fellow 
in the third act of a problem play.” 

“Don’t go on,” said Sheila. “Why should you give any 
explanation? My remarks were impertinent.” She 
touched him on the arm, laughing coaxingly. “And 
what the devil has it got to do with me! ” 

He laughed aloud. 

“I don’t like you to disapprove of me.” 

“What does my disapproval matter?” 

“I hope I haven’t painted myself as a marytred man, 
a good husband spoilt.” 

“You’d never make a good husband-” 

“Why, the child says it quite kindly.” 

“-But you can’t help it.” 

“Sheila, that’s a wonderful sentence.” 




DIFFERENT GODS 


'307 


“Why-’’ 

“Because it signifies understanding. Then you’ll like 
me in spite of what I am.” 

“Yes.” 

“You could have said so aptly, ^No, Mr. Henry, per¬ 
haps Arthur? I like you because of what you are.’ ” 

“But, I couldn’t have said it truthfully.” 

He laughed again, glancing at the corner table, “She’s 
a deuced pretty woman.” He regarded her with delight. 
“I hope she is charming too.” 

“Does that matter?” asked Sheila rather scornfully. 

“Why?” he raised his eyebrows in astonishment, “it 
matters everything. If I talked to that woman and dis¬ 
covered that her only quality was her prettiness, I 
wouldn’t care if I never saw her again.” 

“You would, because you like looking at pretty 
women.” 

“But there are so many of them to look at. I wouldn’t 
miss her amongst the crowd. Now a charming woman— 
Sheila, the loveliest things in this life are music, poetry, 
and the company of charming women.” 

She looked at her wrist-watch. 

“Oh! How late it is I” She picked up her gloves. 
“Please, Mr. Henry, don’t come to this little restaurant 
any more. It’s far too quiet and cheap for the likes 
of you.” 

“But I’m delighted with it.” 

“In other words, don’t come any more, because I 
always come here.” 

“You’re playing into my hands by giving me an all- 
sufficient reason why I, too, should come.” 

“Please don’t. The Well-Beloved wouldn’t like it.” 

“I thought you were thinking of the office, madam.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


308 

“Oh no,’’ she said in surprise. 

He laughed. 

“Sheila, who the dickens is this Well-Beloved?” 

“Oh-” She tried to speak, but at the thought of 

him tenderness suffused her. 

“Let’s go.” 

They stood up and went out into the street. Three 
girls passed them, pink-flushed, comely, and radiant. 

“Sheila,” said Henry, “a fellow might as well love only 
one flower as only one woman. Because I adore the lily 
shall I scorn the rose?” 

“No,” said Sheila, “but you needn’t adore her too. 
Anyway you can’t compare woman with flowers.” 

“I think the comparison is delightful.” 

“Look at that woman.” She pointed to an old, bat¬ 
tered creature selling matches. “What flower would you 
compare her to?” 

“Sheila, don’t be brutal.” 

“You can pluck one flower and cast it aside, and pluck 
another and cast it aside without causing much commo¬ 
tion.” 

“Oh that women were as reasonable as flowers!” 

“Don’t be silly. It’s a matter of insensibility, not of 
reason.” 

“Really?” he said, his eyes dancing. 

“You’re making fun of me. But I don’t care. Would 
you like to be made love to and then ignored for some¬ 
body else?” 

“I certainly shouldn’t make a commotion.” 

“What would you do?” 

“I should shrug my shoulders and pass on.” 

“But most people aren’t like that.” 

“That is their misfortune.” 



DIFFERENT GODS 


309 


“No.” 

“Sheila, your name should be Prudence.” 

“Why?” 

“Because then, it could be shortened, without offence, 
into Prude.” 

“Am I a prude?” 

“One-eighth of you is.” 

“Oh, is that all! I^m disappointed. Some people 
would think me quite wicked, so I-” 

“Would they, Sheila?” he asked quickly. 

She coloured and avoided his eyes. 

“But I’m not wicked, I’m only unfortunate.” 

“I’m awfully glad, Sheila dear, because only for that, 
more than one-eighth of you might be a prude.” 

“Perhaps you’re right. When everything goes easy it is 
awfully hard to make allowances for other people. I 
don’t think I’ve ever been intolerant though, only igno¬ 
rant. I don’t think it’s prudery to hate your—promis¬ 
cuous ways. That’s only common decency.” 

“There’s another match-seller, Sheila. I refuse to look 
at her. Come over here by the shops.” 

“But not looking at her doesn’t put her out of exist¬ 
ence.” 

“I prefer to look at the pretty little flapper in blue 
staring at the hats. Come over here by the shops.” 

“No.” 

His face was alight with mischief as he looked surrep¬ 
titiously at Sheila’s frown. 

As they were passing the match-seller, Henry turned 
away his head. The old woman called out: “Good after¬ 
noon, sir,” and beamed upon him. 

“Ah! Good afternoon, Mrs. Best.” 

He was going to hurry along, but she called out, “You’re 



310 


DIFFERENT GODS 


forgetting your matches.’’ She handed him a box, and 
added, still beaming upon him, ^‘And my daughter says, 
Thank you kindly for the five pounds and the baby’s 
a beautiful boy.’ ” 

hope she’ll soon be better.” 

^Dh, she’ll be up in no time and taking ’er place ’ere 
again.” 

^‘I’m glad to hear that.” 

“Mr. Henry-” began Sheila, as they moved away. 

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” 

“Yes,” said Sheila mischievously, “but tell me what 
sort of flower that woman’s daughter is like?” 

“Like none, you horrid child. She has one eye and no 
teeth.” 

<‘Then-” 

“Miss Derwent, it is time you were back at the office. 
Have you a conscience?” 

She laughed. 

“It’s no use your trying to look stern, because you 
can’t do it.” 

“I wasn’t doing my best then. Shall I try again?” 

A newsboy ran towards them crying, “Latest edition, 
and bearing a poster which announced in thick black 
lettering, “Heavy casualties.” 

“Damn you, get out of the way,” growled Henry, and 
he did not look a second time at Sheila’s face. 




CHAPTER XLIII 


W EEKS went by. 

One evening Peg said quietly: “IVe got a 
bit of a shock for you. Gilbert’s in a home 
for mental cases.” 

‘m Peg!” 

‘‘They were told they Were going over the top, and it 
turned his brain.” 

“Gilbert!” 

“Fancy having to go into a home! He would rather 
have died in battle.” 

“Gilbert!” 

“He meant to come back in such a blaze of glory.” 
“Poor Gilbert!” 

“Augustus is talking of going out.” 

“Is he?” 

“He’s anxious to go, but the vicar’s so ill. He’s a! saint 
of an old man and would do anything for anybody. But 
Augustus couldn’t with decency leave him like this. Still, 
he’s determined to go.” 

“Will any man be left!” 

“He asked me about you, said he thought you often 
looked strained and anxious. I said, ‘Don’t ask me any 
questions about Sheila. She’s having a rough time of it. 
I’ll tell you that much.’ He never said another word, just 
pretended nothing had been said at all. For the first 
time I really admired him. I expected he’d try to preach, 


312 DIFFERENT GODS 

and was ready for him, but he simply talked of something 
else.” 

“How good most people are,” said Sheila, flushing. 
Peg poked the fire. 

“Does Fanny still write to Henry?” 

“No, her letters suddenly stopped three or four weeks 
ago. But she might be ringing him up. I don’t know.” 

“Everybody thinks at Mrs. Price’s—I was there this 
afternoon—that the war will be over any week now.” 

“Any day, I think. It can’t go on like this much 
longer.” 

Sheila hurriedly picked up an illustrated paper and 
turned over the pages. She hated to talk of the war, it 
brought back all her terrors, and weighed down the des¬ 
perate refusal to reason, called blind faith, which helped 
her to pretend that Philip was certain to come back safe, 
and make life rich and beautiful again. 

The paper was full of brides and bridegrooms, famous 
actresses, and betrothed couples. Sheila turned over the 
pages with interest, and stopped abruptly when she came 
upon the full-length photograph of Willie and a tall hand¬ 
some girl. 

At first he could hardly believe her own eyes. Then 
she read, under the photograph, “Miss Sylvia Hewlett and 
her fiance. Captain William Blakely.” 

A paragraph on the opposite side referred to the en¬ 
gagement. Miss Sylvia Hewlett was the only daughter 
of the rich Howard Hewlett of Hamilton Hall. Captain 
Blakely was related to the Conington Blakelys. . . . 

Sheila stared at the photograph. Yes, it was Willie. 
She remembered now that Mrs. Turton had said his 
father’s name was Blakely. Corney was the name of the 
woman who had brought him up, 


DIFFERENT GODS 


313 


So he had got his lady. Sheila looked with pity at the 
girl’s proud face. Had he deceived her about his birth 
and upbringing, or was she too, like the others, so over¬ 
come with love of him that she was grateful for receiving 
his favour and asked for nothing else? 

Willie looked beautiful as usual. Exercise had given 
him back his slimness. His uniform became him well. 
His head was thrown back, he was alive with all his old 
delight, and about him was an extra radiance. He looked 
brimful of rejoicing that he was no longer Willie Corney, 
farm hand, but William Blakely, officer and gentleman. 

Sheila wondered if his father knew he was using the 
family name, and she was so curious about the matter that 
she wrote to Mrs. Turton, enclosing the photograph and 
saying she knew it would interest her. Mrs. Turton 
replied that Willie never came to Gaston, never wrote to 
anybody, and never answered any letters. She thanked 
Sheila repeatedly for sending the photograph, and Sheila 
knew how, in her continual eagerness for news, her mind 
would feed upon it. 

Meta wrote next day. 

“Dear old Sheila,— 

^‘What do you think! Vm engaged! IsnH it wonder- 
ful! Vm frightfully thrilled about it, and so astonished. 
Nobody^s ever been in love with me before. I wonder 
what he sees in me. 

^^He bought me a ring and I hied me to school with it on. 
Miss Martin sought me out in the afternoon and—though 
she^d been staring at my ring all day—said with surprise, 
^Must I congratulate you? I never saw it till this minute. 
Where does he come from? Whafs his name? and so 
on! I mumbled something unintelligible in reply. Miss 
Martinis so gossipy and inquisitive that I resent her men^ 


DIFFERENT GODS 


314 

tlonlng the matter at all. I want to keep it to myself for 
awhile. It^s all so new, my love for Maynard, I mean. 
You guessed it was Maynard, didnH you? 1 couldnH have 
borne to chat about him to Miss Martin just at that 
moment. Well, as she went out of the door she met one 
of the other mistresses, I think it was Miss Rhys, and she 
said, mentioned her ring, but I couldnH get a word out 
of her!^ I really laughed aloud. Once upon a time Pd 
have been mad with her for being so petty, but now every¬ 
thing but Maynard seems small and of no importance. 
I told you it was Maynard, didnH I? The other mis¬ 
tresses were awfully sweet. 

‘^He’s got bad sight. IsnT it awful to be glad that a 
man^s got bad sight! He isnH. He wants to join up. 
ArenH men strange and splendid? He^s been rejected 
twice, but they^re lowering the standard now. Vm not 
going to worry though, because the war is certain to be 
over in a few weeks. 

*^And now for a surprise. Paula and Way field are going 
to be married. I know youWe saying, told you so!^ 
'and I donH blame you. IsnH it extraordinary! They 
wouldnH bother with a ceremony only for the fact that 
^neighbours are so banale!^ CanH you hear Paula saying 
that? I thought she’d scorn to go through a ceremony 
she says she despises. It’s queer to see them together, 
Paula, composed and masculine, making a shelf with 
tools, and Way field, tiny and feminine, embroidering his 
cushion-covers. I hope I’m not getting catty. Am I? 

**Poor Cynthia is terribly jealous. Paula pretends that 
her resistance has been worn down by Way field’s dogged¬ 
ness, but the truth of the matter is that she’s got him by 
sheer force of will. That isn’t cattiness, Sheila, it’s true. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


315 

Cynthia^s going to live with her people in Ealing again. 

^^Let me know any news. 

“/ wrote quite a conventional letter home about my 
engagement. But I can*t hide my happiness jrom you. 

^^Love jrom Meta.” 

Sheila; smiled affectionately as she read the letter and 
wrote at once to Meta wishing her happiness. 

Then she sat down opposite Peg by the fire, and opened 
the Oxford Book of English. Verse which Mr. Henry had 
given to her. He had written in it, To Prudence^ from 
Imprudence. Sheila had said, pointing to the last word, 
‘^You’ve a letter too many. What’s the V for?” He had 
laughed with enjoyment, but immediately afterwards he 
had become serious and said, ^^Sheila, what has happened 
in your dear little life to quieten your infinite capacity for 
merriment?” 

She had smiled, not answering, and when he waited for 
her to speak she said, haven’t thanked you for the 
book. How good of you to give it to me! ” 

“So that’s that,” he said. 

“What?” 

“You’re letting me meet the Well-Beloved when he 
comes home?” 

“Yes,” she said, driving the fear from her heart= 
“When he comes home.” 

“I saw Jimmy the other day,” said Peg. She picked 
up the evening paper. “He was out with his wife and 
five children if you please. There were two in the pram 
and three walking, and they trudged along looking like 
nothing on earth. She looked as though nothing could 
ever make her excited again. Her hair was anyhow, and 
the heels of her shoes were worn away. As for him, he 
must be still scraping away in his fifth-rate orchestra*” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


316 

“Is there a man on earth who’d content you^ Peg?’^ 

“I hope so,” said Peg simply. “I’m not sorry now 
I didn’t marry Jimmy. At least I’ve enough money to 
spend. With him I’d have been living from hand to mouth. 
I’d have had a short spell of happiness and nothing more. 
But what a hell it was at the time!” She twisted her 
mouth. “And now he’s no more to me than a stone.” 

She turned over the leaves of the newspaper, glancing 
idly down the columns. The fire made pleasant murmur¬ 
ing little sounds. Sheila, half in a dream, read dimly— 

“. . . some of her new friends 
Playing at holy games 
Spake, gentle-mouth’d among themselves, 

Their virginal, chaste names. 

And the souls, mounting up to God, 

Went by her like thin flames.” 

“Sheila!” 

Sheila looked up sharply, startled by the sound of Peg’s 
voice. 

“Fanny’s dead.” 

“No!” cried Sheila fearfully. 

“Yes, it’s in the paper. Look! Trances, wife of Doc¬ 
tor Philip Strongitharm. . . . ’ ” 

“No,” breathed Sheila, unreasoning. 

“Dead!” said Peg, with a sort of triumph. 

“It’s terrible.” 

“Not for you.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? Isn’t it true?” 

Sheila struggled with her incoherent thoughts. 

^‘And the souls mounting up to God, went by her like thin 
flames.” 

Peg still stared at the paper. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


'317 

^‘The times I’ve looked for this,” she said, ‘^till I gave 
up expecting to see it.” 

^^And the souls, mounting up to God, went by her like thin 

flames” 

“Dead!” said Peg. 

Fear crept into Sheila. She said to herself quietly, “I 
mustn’t be glad.” But she wasn’t glad. 

The obstacle was gone. For that she was thankful. 
But she shuddered at stepping into happiness over a dead 
body, over Fanny’s dead body. How unwillingly she must 
have yielded her last breath! Her last look at the earth 
she loved must have been savage in its desperation. She 
had preserved her body so long, dashing in the doctors’ 
faces their theories and prophecies, that it seemed strange 
she hadn’t been able to preserve it for ever. 

Peg got up and poured out two glasses of wine. She 
handed one to Sheila and raised the other to her mouth 
with a large, glad gesture. Sheila drank slowly and 
remembered how Fanny loved wine. She used to drink 
it as though she were sucking it, and it always stained the 
crimson of her lips. So she had heard. 

“Dead,” said Peg, wondering but exultant. 

*‘And the souls mounting up to God, went by her like thin 

flames ” 

Fanny’s would be a darting, malicious, vehement 
flame ... no, she would be stepping into Paradise open¬ 
ing a door. And Roger would stand on the threshold. 
Would Fanny turn back her head when she beheld him, 
grudging and hating? Or would she be soothed by com¬ 
passionate God till her restlessness turned into peace? 
Would Grandmother be watching with her wise old eyes, 
the wrinkles of her familiar face running into patterns? 


DIFFERENT GODS 


318 

The obstacle she had prayed for, in her innocence, was 
gone. Philip could be hers at last. The years of waiting 
were over. The terrible beautiful years of waiting were 
over. Yes, they were terrible, but they were beautiful 
too, because they had burned her love and Philip’s in a 
crucible and proved it to be pure gold. No tinsel passion 
could have withstood that merciless test. 

Fanny was dead, mounting up to God. . . . That gave 
her majesty. It shut her off from all small criticisms. 
Mounting up to God. Would Catherine watch her arrive? 
that Catherine who had murmured, leaning against the 
wall, “Only let me hear his voice.” Her daughter had 
been happier, dying with the man she loved. Her daugh¬ 
ter had been happier though she died in the first flush of 
love and in her youth, because the utmost tragedy is not 
death together, but Life after separation. Catherine had 
known to the full the agony of deprivation. Did she 
remember it? Or was she lost in that utter peace which 
to pulsating humanity is so frightening in its monotony? 
Was Fanny caught in it, indifferent now to the surging 
disturbances of love, which once had enthralled and 
tortured her? 

*‘And the souls, mounting up to God. . . 

The war would be over soon and Philip would return. 
Together they would enter enchantment. The war would 
be over soon, over soon, over soon . . . soon . , . 

soon. . . . 

She repeated the word mechanically as she stared at 
the headlines of the paper which Peg had thrown upon the 
table. “Grave News from the Front. Enemy Break 
Through the Lines. Heavy Casualties/’ 


CHAPTER XLIV 


T he first fortnight that Philip’s letters no longer 
came Sheila forced herself to be optimistic. 
She talked to herself sensibly and reassuringly, 
fighting with the terror that grinned behind her reason. 

^^There’s no need to worry,” she would say to herself. 
^‘He’s busy. Perhaps he has a chill. Perhaps his letters 
have miscarried. I’m bound to hear from him in a day 
or two.” ^ 

But days passed and no letters came. 

She used to listen for the post girl’s ring at the bell, 
and ran to the door as soon as she heard it. When, find¬ 
ing no letter, she came back, smiling determinedly. Peg 
could hardly bear to look at her. 

“I’d rather go into battle than wait at home like this,” 
grumbled Peg miserably. 

Sheila’s eyes went black, but her smile persisted. 

“Ten to one he’s so busy with the wounded that he’s 
too tired to pick up a pen.” She started. “What’s that! ” 
She ran to the window. 

“It’s nothing, only the newsboys shouting.” 

Sheila turned round swiftly. “How dare they go on 
with it!” she cried out. Then she pulled herself up 
sharply, and said in subdued tones, “I’m going for a 
walk.” 

Peg said nothing and watched her go. 

She walked along the streets, the perspiration cold upon 
her face, and found her way to the shore. Two nuns 

319 


DIFFERENT GODS 


320 

passed her, their eyes passive, calm, and complacent. She 
wondered if her turbulent heart would ever slow down 
to the comfortable pace of theirs. Grandmother had said, 
“You live in the clouds. Some day you will fall and bruise 
yourself against the earth.” Grandmother must herself 
have once lived dreaming in the clouds to understand that 
bruising so well. Yet in her old age nothing had seemed 
to affect her. Did one get like that with age? Was pas¬ 
sionate youth such a glory after all? Yes, it was a glory. 
All life was a glory. Soon Philip would come home. . . . 

She crouched upon the sand and implored of God, 
“Don’t let him die.” Grief threw her back to the instinct 
of the old pagans who bargained with their gods. “Don’t 
let him die. If you want a price for his life I’m willing 
to pay it. Let me suffer. I’ll bear all that I’ve borne 
twenty times over, if, in the end, you’ll bring him back 
to me. I’ll do without Roger if you’ll keep him safe. 
What more could I offer you?” 

She felt calmer then. God had listened. He couldn’t 
help but listen when she prayed with her life’s blood. He 
would stop the war somehow. He would send Philip back. 
She got up and stood still for a moment to add, “Help all 
the other women who are waiting as I am, and save those 
who have already heard the last news.” 

She went home then and spoke to Peg quite brightly. 

After an hour or so Sally came into the room. 

“Shall I bring up some tea, ma’am?” she asked Peg, 
and looked at her meaningly. 

“Tea? Why tea, at this hour?” 

“I thought you might fancy some,” said Sally, pur¬ 
posely brushing against Peg as she stooped to pick up a 
piece of fluff from the floor. 

Peg looked up quickly and met Sally’s eyes. 


DIFFERENT GODS 321 

^‘Yes. I’d like some tea',” she said. ^‘I remember now 
I told you I might like some.” 

Sally went out of the room, and Peg took care to let 
several minutes elapse before following her. Then she 
got up and found Sally waiting in the hall. 

picked it up just now,” Sally whispered, drawing a 
letter out of her pocket. ^‘The post girl can’t have rung 
the bell. I mentioned tea because I knew if I’d said as 
something ’ad gone wrong in the kitchen you’d have told 
me to see to it meself, and I couldn’t wait-” 

^‘What is it?” asked Peg sharply, taking the letter. 

^Tt’s from France, but it’s not in his writing.” 

‘T’m going to open it,” said Peg. 

“It’s addressed, ‘Miss Sheila’-” 

“I’m going to open it.” 

“So would I,” said Sally quietly. 

Peg tore open the envelope and read the letter rapidly. 

Philip was dead. A bomb had dropped. . . . 

“Gone?” whispered Sally. 

Peg nodded. 

“Gone,” she said and struggled for breath. Then she 
turned quickly as she heard Sheila’s childish footsteps. 

She concealed the letter in the palm of her hand and 
met Sheila’s eyes with a smile. 

“What is it?” asked Sheila. “Why did Sally nudge you, 
and why did you follow her out of the room?” 

“I didn’t follow her.” 

“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” 

“Nothing.” 

“It’s a letter,” said Sheila, looking almost cunning, and 
staring at Peg in a secretive, suspicious fashion. “It’s a 
letter, and it’s about Philip”—she wetted her lips, which 
looked shrivelled and grey—“and it’s bad news.” 




322 


DIFFERENT GODS 


^‘Yes,” said Peg steadily. 

Sheila reached for the letter and carefully spread 
it out. 

A smile settled on her face. It was a wicked, insane, 
tortured smile, disguising her face like a mask. 

Peg and Sally moved helplessly towards each other. 

‘‘I’ve just been thanking God in there,” her thoughts 
screeched out. “I’ve been talking to Him with gratitude 
and love, and all the time this letter was waiting for me. 
That’s God all over. He draws you on, then hits you in 
the face and laughs.” 

“I’m sorry I’m making such a noise,” she said politely. 
“I’m afraid I can’t help it.” 

Peg and Sally looked frightened. They wondered what 
noise she was referring to, as there wasn’t a sound in 
the hall. 

“I asked God to send an insuperable obstacle,” her 
thoughts screeched out again, “I was a child and didn’t 
know what I was asking. But He listened, sniggering 
behind His hand! He listened. He listened.” She heard 
the words squealing in her head, “He listened. He 
listened.” 

With a convulsive movement she pulled herself together 
and said with dignity, her eyes glittering strangely, “I 
hope this noise doesn’t annoy you. I can’t stop myself 
shouting like this.” 

“Sheila, love, come inside,” said Peg tenderly, her eyes 
full of tears, and taking Sheila by the arm. 

Sheila gently shook her off and listened again to her 
screaming thoughts. 

“Fanny was the insuperable obstacle He sent. Then 
after long years He took her away but only when He 
intended to take Philip away too. That’s God for you. 


DIFFERENT GODS 


323 


He’s on Fanny’s side, not mine. She’s got a will if you 
like. When I met him and loved him she stepped out of 
her grave to snatch him from me, and now he’s gone, she 
stepped into it again. She got her wedding ring safe upon 
her finger. She’ll be wearing it in Paradise. And God 
will go on sniggering. ‘And the soids mounting up to 
God ^—^who was talking about souls ?—‘went by her like 
thin flames/ Fanny would be a darting, malicious, vehe¬ 
ment flame. No, she would be stepping into Paradise, 
opening a door, and Roger would stand on the threshold. 
He would hold out his arms with that familiar, lovely 
gesture of his, and Fanny would shut the door in his face, 
and stand with her back to it, winking at God.” 

She burst into loud laughter. Peg screamed out in 
fear, ^^Sally, go for a doctor!” 


CHAPTER XLV 


S HEILA’S long convalescence was like a restless 
sleep interrupted by delicious dreams in which 
Philip always came back. Sometimes he came 
alone, but he generally had Roger on his shoulder and 
they all had great fun together. 

The dreams were delicious, but the waking up spelt 
terror. 

She would look round the room and envy all inanimate 
things. She decided it was very much better to be a wall 
or a picture than a lying creature, for they existed with¬ 
out being, and were incapable of feeling. 

She envied especially the knob on the door, she didn’t 
know why. She often watched it for many minutes at a 
time. It never minded if it were being moved or not. It 
was equally content to be used or unused. 

Sometimes Peg would turn back at the door to say 
something, and she would twist the knob, roughly, back¬ 
wards and forwards. But the knob never minded. Peg 
could have struck it for all it cared. 

Her body got better in spite of itself, but its determined 
struggles to full health were continually being retarded 
by her mental lethargy. 

She didn’t want to get up because there was nothing 
to get up for. It was far easier to dream away the days in 
bed than to fill them with effort. If she got up she’d have 
to dress in the morning, go out, talk, and do all the other 
things that had no meaning in them. It wasn’t unpleasant 
to rest in bed and listen to the footsteps of the foolish, 

324 


DIFFERENT GODS 


325 

bustling people outside, and feel glad she could lie quiet 
and rest. 

She used to watch the colour of the days. She liked 
the pearly grey mornings and all the veiled delicate 
shades of approaching night. She liked least the early 
afternoon, it being not only less lovely than morning 
and evening, but less subtle and less exclusive. It had 
no dignity and was quite without sweetness, and never 
encouraged dreaming. 

Sheila always remembered the morning of the 
Particular Day. It began with cold greyness and 
then burst into gold. The early afternoon was just like 
any other, and the doctor paid one of his visits. 

“You’re doing splendidly,” he said. “You must get 
up to-morrow,” and he smiled at her with his tired, 
brave, understanding eyes. 

She said, startled, “I don’t want to get up. I’d much 
rather stay in bed. I’ve a little money, you know, and 
it will keep me most easily, with no clothes to buy and 
no amusements to pay for.” 

“I know you feel like that,” he said, “your body hasn’t 
yet recovered from the blows your brain has inflicted 
upon it. It wants to do nothing but rest.” He paused 
to smile at her—she noticed that his smile, too, was tired 
and brave—and added, “You’d like to be a turnip, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“No,” she said, “the knob on the door.” 

He turned to look at it, without smiling or showing 
any surprise. 

“Once, when I was ill like you,” he said, “I wanted 
to be a turnip.” 

“A turnip,” she said politely, “is quite a nice thing 
to be.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


326 

“It has the advantage of the open air.” 

“But then it has to face storms and cold weather.” 

“Being a turnip, though, it doesn’t mind.” 

“No,” she said, “that’s just it.” 

She was pleased to find she was not unique in wishing 
to be inanimate. She had never mentioned the door 
knob before. She had kept her envy of it so secret that 
it made her feel solitary at times. But the doctor knew 
all about it. He had felt once as she was feeling. She 
looked at him with interest. 

“I thought,” he said, “that I would never change my 
opinions. But I wouldn’t be a turnip for anything, now.” 

“Wouldn’t you really!” she said, surprised. 

“Of course I wouldn’t. You’ll change too when you 
are properly better.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

He looked at her gravely for a minute then turning his 
gaze to the window, he said quietly, “Have you ever tried 
imagining a glorious surprise?” 

“No,” she said resentfully. 

“You should try it.” 

She didn’t speak but looked at him with sad displeasure, 
aghast at his cruelty. 

“You should pretend, some time, that somebody you 
loved very much had come back to you. Such things have 
been known to happen, you know.” 

“I don’t want to pretend that,” she whispered, and 
turned her face to the wall. When she heard the doctor 
go away and close the door behind him, she sank before 
the onslaught of her grief. 

Philip had been a dream in her dreams. The doctor 
had reminded her that he was a dead man. He had said, 
“Pretend.” 


DIFFERENT GODS 


327 


She looked at the door and pictured Philip opening it 
and her heart breathed fast as though it were choking. 
She yearned for Philip with the old passion. Between 
them was more than the love of man and woman; there 
was the need of one certain soul for another. 

She bowed her head and wept, for the first time since 
he went to France. It seemed that her tears once un¬ 
loosed had to run riot. She sobbed without ceasing for 
more than an hour. 

Once the door opened and softly closed again. No one 
came to turn on the light, but when it was quite dark 
and she had no more tears to shed, Sally came up and 
sat with her. With beautiful tact she never mentioned 
her approaching marriage, and she entertained Sheila 
with merry stories of her hard and half-starved childhood. 

The following evening when Peg came to see her she 
was smiling in a curious, excited fashion and her cheeks 
were quite white. 

‘‘What’s the matter?” asked Sheila. 

Peg sat down on the bed. 

“You’ve got to be calm,” she said. “I’ve something to 
tell you.” She paused, frowning desperately. “I want 
to tell you in the right way, and I don’t know how.” 

“Just say it outright,” said Sheila kindly, looking 
puzzled. 

“I hope we’ve acted for the best, Sheila, be very 
calm-” 

“I’m quite calm. Peg.” 

heard a week ago that Philip was alive.” 

“A week ago!” whispered Sheila. 

“We didn’t tell you because we thought the suspense 
of waiting for him to come would be too much for you. 
Think how long that week would have been, you wouldn’t 



DIFFERENT GODS 


328 

have slept. So the doctor and I decided not to tell you 
till he was actually here.” 

Sheila began to breathe in gasps. She tried to speak, 
but her lips only fumbled with each other. 

Peg held her by the shoulders, saying reproachfully, 
“You said you’d be calm.” 

“I’m so calm. Peg.” 

“You’re not. You’re trembling all over.” 

“Tell me-” 

“He wasn’t amongst the lot that was bombed. He was 
taken prisoner when our men retreated. Then we ad¬ 
vanced again-” 

“Where is he?” 

Peg looked at her quietly and said in a steady voice, 
“He’s outside the door.” 

“Don’t frighten me like this!” 

“Sheila!” 

“No, don’t listen to me! I don’t know what I’m saying. 
Tell me again, where is he?” 

“He’s outside the door.” 

Sheila covered her face. 

“It’s nearly too much for me.” 

“There’s no need to see him for awhile.” 

“No need?” she made a ghastly sound of merriment. 
“No need?” 

“Sheila-” 

She cried out suspiciously, “You aren’t joking with me, 
are you?” 

“Joking?” 

“I’ve dreamt this so often.” 

“You’re wide awake now. It isn’t a dream. It’s true.” 
“I’ve said that often in my dreams, Tt isn’t a dreamt 
It’s true!’ But I’ve wakened all the same.” 





DIFFERENT GODS 329 

“Sheila, darling. What am I to do with you? You 
said you’d be calm.” 

“I’m awftdly calm.” 

“You aren’t.” 

“I am.” 

“He’s outside the door.” 

“Oh my God!” 

“I’ll go and bring him.” 

Sheila clutched at the bedclothes. Peg went out, open¬ 
ing the door wide, and Philip stepped on the threshold. 
His eyes fell hungrily upon her. There was no smile on 
his face. He was beyond smiling. He could only gaze 
upon her. 

She was sitting up in bed, her head thrown back, her 
arms outstretched! She did not speak, but he sensed 
the passion and rapture in those reaching arms. 

He sped across the room to her, and lifting her bodily 
in his arms, laid her upon his bosom. 


THE END 




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